


Holding On

by vivianwithnail



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Depression, Everyone is depressed author included, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marwood is a successful actor, POV Third Person, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Ten Years Later, The Marwood/female ocs is past don't worry I'm physically incapable of writing straight romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, switching POV, teacher Withnail, unrealistic depiction of dramatic arts academies-my deepest apologies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-07 22:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 63,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14091327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianwithnail/pseuds/vivianwithnail
Summary: Ten years later, and Withnail is a teacher at RADA. Ten years since Marwood left him in the pouring rain. A decade seemed enough to sort everything out, to reach something that resembled inner peace. But then Marwood walks into his life again, unaware of everything, and Withnail is once again in the pouring rain. Metaphorically.





	1. Withnail

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Led Zeppelin's Ten Years Gone.
> 
> Infinite thanks to Cris even if he doesn't beta this anymore, the lazy fuck. I wouldn't have had the guts to publish this without his initial editing. English isn't my first language, so apologies for eventual mistakes that escaped my attention. I'm not one for extensive research, so there might be some inaccuracies in the setting description when it's not invented. I welcome all corrections.

 

 

 

> _"I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time,  
>  I'll give it right back to ya one of these days"_

 Jimi Hendrix, _Voodoo Child_

 

 

 

Withnail woke up in his room to white autumn light filtering through the blinds that covered the lofty windows. His alarm had not rung yet, signing a couple of minutes before 7 am. He decided that closing his burning eyes again wasn't worth it and sat on the edge of the bed to retrieve his stopped watch from the nightstand.

His eyelids felt heavy, as if the skin on his face was being pulled to the ground. Christ, he felt so tired, he needed to stop going to bed at such ungodly hours. It was really starting to fuck with him. He rose up with a grunt, joints aching. This room was too big and the ceilings too high. He had tried, with poor results, to partially cover the emptiness by reducing it to a clutter of relics, oddities and heavy fabrics. It looked like an antiquities atelier now. The whole house was too spacious actually; not for a family of four, or even three members, but surely for him. Nevertheless, he could afford to live there and keep it clean. It was also situated near the park, so he wasn't complaining too loudly.

He walked to the bathroom across the hall from his bedroom while yawning. A shiver went down his spine when his feet touched the freezing tiles. He fumbled with the wall until the fluorescent lights flickered on. Withnail looked at his reflection in the mirror, knowing that it wasn't so hard once. The mauve shadows around his eyes hadn't left him since he was 20. The furrows sculpted on the corners of his mouth and above his brows by the unkind and unforgiving chisel of time were more recent. He still thought of himself as handsome, but it didn't really make a difference at this point in his life.

Withnail ran a hand over his cheeks and decided it was time for a shave. With each passing day his jaundice complexion and lanky figure made him look more and more like a wax statue of his glorious 20s. Oddly still, out of place, a shadow of his past self, maybe? No, he was whole. He was fine. He wasn't a rag doll to be filled with pills and booze looking for a puppeteer anymore. The cold razor blade and taste of metallic tap water that stained his lips made him snap out of his thoughts, before they inevitably drifted to more harrowing memories.

He headed into the kitchen and spotted Charles nestled in not one, but two tartan covers. He showed no signs of life except for the quick rise and fall of his chest. The little fucker must have caught a fat rat not long ago, or Withnail would have stumbled several times on his brief trip to the kitchen. The greedy bastard never seemed to have enough to eat in the morning. A little more quietness while waiting for the kettle to boil would have been welcome more often.

 Withnail kept repeating to himself that he was _not_ becoming like uncle Monty, thank you very much. No matter how many times his brothers teased him about it, he would have never given in to indoor gardening. The only reason he kept a cat was that it was the only thing smart enough not to perish under his frequent negligence.

 He hardly had any strength in him to toast some bread, but did so anyway and downed his pills with the inch of cold, strong tea that had been left in his cup. They were for his liver, high blood pressure, or whatever the fuck it was. Withnail had lost count of how many kinds of pills they prescribed him throughout the years. He didn't exactly trust doctors, but had learned not to protest. It would be hypocritical of him anyway, complaining about foreign substances entering his body.

He moved to his room, patted Charles on the head on his way back. Charles responded by raising his head with a chirp, and went back to sleep.

He took his nightshirt off and tossed it onto the bed. Opening his closet door, he was unsure of what to look for as he vetted through the racks of oversized apparel. It's not like he wanted to wear large clothes, but his skeletal frame didn't give him much of a choice. He decided on a white button down and a cardigan. His collection of vintage -not old!- pieces had gotten lost approximately ten years ago, they would have been too flamboyant anyway. The principal was smart enough to allow a certain amount of eccentricity from teachers and students, but Withnail was already a 40 year old bachelor, thespian, and cat owner. Even the shameless, bolder and, more importantly, younger Withnail would have known it was too much. It would have been as if he had a big, flashing neon sign above his head saying "queer" and he definitely didn’t need that.

 

He figured, tying up his brown leather boots, that he had enough time for a smoke before heading to school. He opened the windows that overlooked his claustrophobic backyard and lit the fag in his mouth with a match. The familiar feeling of warm smoke burning in his throat against the frigid British autumn had a calming melancholy. He didn't feel like finishing the fag so he stubbed it on the damp windowsill with a couple of drags left. While retrieving the necessary to leave home (house and car keys, wallet, cigarettes, coat, bag. ( _Where the fuck was his bag? Oh, there it is. Get off , Charles! How dare you hiss at me! I feed you!_ ) he spat in the kitchen sink, not wanting to swallow tobacco flavoured spit.

 Locking the front door, movement and chatter made him turn his head. He noticed his neighbour, a middle aged woman with bleached hair and bleached teeth, kneeling in front of her two kids who were ready for school. She rose up, sending him a glance and a nervous yet polite smile. Withnail responded with something that looked more like a painfully forced muscle spasm rather than anything spontaneously demure.

 He hated driving in London's traffic, but a license and a car had been a necessity a few years ago. He really didn't feel like going back to public transportation, which was even worse in his mind.  
If roads are a city's arteries, then London was on the brink of a bloody heart attack, he thought. The streets were always so clogged, overflowing with vehicles and noise. Withnail decided it was way too early for a headache. The grey Volkswagen in front of him took a sharp turn to the left and he promptly hit the brakes as to not crash into it.

 “Use your fucking blinker, you cunt!” he screamed, almost spitting on the windshield with rage.

 After suffering a half an hour in traffic, he violently parked his mini with a jerk of the steering wheel and stretched his legs that had been uncomfortably folded up until that point. He then laid his eyes upon The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, which could be found on the 18th of Chenies street in a historical building in Bloomsbury. The red brick building divided in a precise grid of arched windows, hid sober interiors in creaking dark wood and cast iron. The ballrooms here were more luminous and the wooden floor newer, but Withnail was an acting coach, so his place was in the theatre, underneath blinding stage lights that boiled his skin to the point of feeling feverish, and made dust particles dance in front of his eyes, the latter making him wonder what the fuck the school paid the janitors for.

Withnail tried entering the theatre without looking like the vein on his temple was going to burst dangerously soon, the scowl on his face worsening when none of the students seemed to notice his arrival. They were talking and gushing excitedly amongst themselves, the girls particularly giggly and the boys hardly containing themselves. He made his presence known by loudly dropping his leather bag. It fell upon the compact desk teachers were allowed, which hardly fit between the stage gap and the front row. All of the students suddenly turned to the front of the room, too fidgety to actually look apologetic.

He didn't consider himself strict and he hoped his students realized that. Yes, he was rude, vulgar, irritable, spitting venom at them, but never with discrimination or cruel intentions. Being harsh was a necessity or else these kids would have never survived a newspaper's review. If they wanted to be coddled they could have easily turned to Ms. Hughes, the improvisation coach. Withnail knew formalities all too well, and that's why he completely disregarded them, much to the principal's disapproval. Some students noticed his callous ways, but most of them were too scared of the foul mouthed, six foot two, half dead man in front of them to accept that Vivian A. J. Withnail was, in fact, rather harmless. He was however, not used to being completely ignored by his class, especially as soon as he entered the room.

A silence overcame the students, making Withnail intrigued by whatever had startled his students to that point.

“Would someone be so kind to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

The whole class erupted in an excited roar, all trying to tell the news first.

“I SAID ONE, NOT ALL OF YOU!” Withnail barked, already annoyed. He nodded towards the first student that appeared in his field of view with his chin. “You. Tell me what's going on.”

The short girl with fluffy blonde hair looked puzzled, and quickly mouthed _doesn't he know?_ at her friend, before returning her gaze to the teacher.

“Mr. Withnail, sir. It's about the Cinema and Television Workshop. They announced this year's host.”

 Withnail looked on in confusion. He knew that the principal had had difficulties finding a candidate this year, and by what transpired from last week's council reunion, no one seemed too eager to participate either. Where was this sudden change coming from?

“That's impossible. The council wasn't notified. I wasn't notified.”

“The advice just arrived sir, apparently the principal didn't think it was necessary to pass it through the council?”

“Very well,”—Withnail definitely had an headache now—“and who would that be, do enlighten me, miss...?”

“Wotton, sir.”

“Wotton. So, who is it?”

Ms. Wotton could hardly hold her smile back, the corners of her mouth tugging nervously in two dimples.

“It's Peter Marwood, sir.”

 

 


	2. Withnail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might raise a couple of questions, but don't worry, they'll be answered later on.

Withnail felt sick. He gripped the edge of the desk until his digits turned white. There was a hot metallic taste in the back of his mouth. He tried to contain his shock in front of the class, but he felt it slip away in his expression.

“Class, if you don't mind waiting here for a couple of minutes, I must have a word with the principal.” He managed feebly, unaware if he had even been heard. He just needed to get the fuck away from there to process that.

Shock slowly turned into ire. Why wasn't he notified? Who cared that Marwood was the one who was hosting the workshop, never mind him! Why the fuck did the principal think the teachers' council had no say in this! He climbed two flights of stairs, seething with rage before realizing how useless it was to get angry at this point. While being too out of his mind to do anything about his body, which was moving on its own and barging into the principal's office as he ignored the assistant's protests.

The principal excused the woman sitting in front of him, asking her to come back in half an hour. She obliged, scurrying away from the man who stood by the door looking like he was about to spit foam from his mouth, like a horse straight off the racetrack.  
The principal, Richard Talbot, was a fat man around his seventies, with a rough yet tidy looking grey moustache and brown eyes contoured by thick tortoiseshell frames.  
His calmness was part of his character, but it helped that he was used to Withnail's emotional outbursts by now.  
  
“Oh, Vivian, good morning. I was wondering when you were going to show up. Please, take a seat.”

Withnail shot him a grim look, mouth sealed shut in a thin line. Following Talbot's invite, he sat down gingerly, as if he was going to explode if he let himself slump in the armchair like he usually did.

“You seem upset. Is this about the Cinema and Television Workshop? If that's the case, I beg you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I meant no disrespect to you or your colleagues by not consulting the council first. I received a phone call from Mr. Marwood himself two days ago in which he told me he was not only available but extremely eager to participate in this p-”

“Does he know?” Withnail interrupted him, the last thing he needed right now was one of Talbot's rants on how much of a fine and outstanding person and artist Peter Marwood was.

“Excuse me?” Talbot raised an eyebrow, puzzled by Withnail's ominous and abrupt question.

“Does P—No, _Mr. Marwood_ know that I teach here?” Withnail's voice was on the verge of shaking, as he kept a tight grip on the green velvet of his chair.

 It had been so easy during these ten years to just switch off the TV or throw away the paper whenever Marwood was mentioned, but now he seemed to be back, physically, pleasant and expected as a bucket of ice cold water accidentally falling on your head in the middle of winter.  
  
“Uh... No. I figured it wasn't important for him to know the names of the lecturers as he's doing an autonomous work with the pupils, but I can notify his agent right n-”

 “NO! No. Please. Don't. There's no need to. I think it's perfectly fine this way.”

“Is there something you want to tell me about Mr. Marwood? Are you not a fan of his performances? I need to know if you think that your teaching methods are going to clash with his.”

“If I say that I do think that our teaching methods are polar opposites, is there any chance that his workshop will be cancelled?” Asked ironically, half-heartedly, already knowing the answer.

  
There was no way that Talbot would have cancelled this event, and no way that his students would have forgiven him if the rumour that he was the one responsible for the annulment of Peter Marwood's workshop had gotten around.

Talbot took the glasses from the bridge of his nose and sighed, his body relaxing in an attempt to look more informal, paternal.

“Vivian, please. I'm sure you and Mr. Marwood will be perfectly capable of setting your divergences aside for the sake of your students. I'd hate to make you uncomfortable but you have to remember our aim is the students' education.”

Withnail did not calm down despite the principal's new approach to the matter. His wrath had turned into bitter resignation. Alright, so the principal was determined to let Marwood back into his life, but Withnail would not sit there and watch idly.  
  
“Fine. Bollocks to that. Now tell me why the council wasn’t notified. Why did I have to find this out from my bloody students!?”

“It was a surprise for me too! I had to accept immediately, Mr. Marwood is a very busy man. And he is one of our most ardent supporters and most talented alumni, too. You understand that hesitating on his proposal would have been inappropriate and pointless. I'm personally thrilled to have him back here as a teacher. The council will be properly informed on the matter during tomorrow's reunion.”

“I'm not going to sit there while he's teaching. I'm taking a vacation.” Withnail decided, knowing it was his last shot at keeping Marwood out of his life.

“I'm afraid you'll have to. The workshop is in a month and there's no time to find a substitute teacher. Also you know you have to include it in the year's program and I wouldn't trust a substitute to write the report.”

“Why do you want me to do this, Richard?”

At this point, Withnail's tone was pleading and desperate. He wasn't scared of Marwood, he was afraid for himself, his sanity and well being. Peter's departure ten years and two months ago had taken too much from him. Seeing him again, so casually and so unprepared, was a threat. Peter was once again walking into his life and pouring salt onto the wound that he so tried to so hard to stitch up.

“Vivian, if you could just be honest about your dislike for Mr. Marwood, I think it would be the best for the both of us.” Talbot was calm, but his tone hinted that he wouldn't accept silence or a lie.

 “I knew him.” And Withnail's voice definitely did not crack.

“Well where's the issue then! Do you know him from your days here?”  
  
Withnail did not answer, he just fixated his gaze on Talbot. He hoped it would have been enough to make him understand that his feelings for Marwood were different from a nostalgic rivalry or fondness for a former classmate.

“Oh. _Oh_. Is he _that_ Peter?”

“Oh God. What has Monty told you?”

“Montague mentioned a Peter, he had told me you two had...something.”

Withnail let out a huff that ranged between amused and bitter. He was partly to blame for this. He waved his hand in dismissal.

“Monty told you what he wanted to believe. It wasn't like that. _He_ isn't like that. But we were friends. When he left...well, you know the story.”

“I do, and I apologise, Vivian. If I had known I would have certainly discussed the matter with you. I could have never imagined… but I'm afraid it's too late now.”

“It's fine. Well, it's not actually fine, but maybe it's a sign that I have to deal with that chapter of my life once again.” Withnail did not believe a single word of what he had just said. It was part of his act to make people believe that he was a well-adjusted adult that knew how to face the daily adversities of life.

Withnail rose from the velvet chair quickly, much go his aching joints' disapproval. He had cooled down, but he wasn't any less frightened than he was before. He feared the mental breakdown that awaited him at home.

“I apologise for the interruption, Richard. Now if you will excuse me, I left my class unsupervised and I'm fearing for the theatre's incolumity.”

“Don't forget the reunion tomorrow.”

“I won't.” And Withnail closed the door with a polite smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh i just know this shit is going to haunt me in a couple of years when I try to appear like a professional. Here's to the opportunity of dying under a bridge before that happens.


	3. Marwood

Marwood sat on the kitchen stool, slowly chewing on a cheap pen as words slipped out of his mind as he thought them. The blank page of his notebook stared back accusatory in its silence as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a sigh; he hated when his brain didn't want to cooperate with his writing. Marwood looked away as the muted ticking of the clock on the wall synchronized with his breathing. It made him feel calmer, turning his spotless, warm toned kitchen into a waiting room. The lights bounced off the counter’s finishing and created rings on the ceiling.

He slid off the stool and aimlessly opened the fridge, laying his eyes on the opened bottle of red wine. Marwood had bought it a couple of days ago to announce to Dottie that he was hosting the Cinema and Television Workshop at RADA in December; but she came home weary, with a grim face and told him it was over, that she couldn't stand his aloofness and absence any longer. She was sweet even when picking out his faults, reaching for his forearm to stop an emotional reaction that he only partially faked. Dottie then packed a suitcase of her belongings and told him she was going to pick the rest of her stuff up the following week. He told her not to bother, that he would pack the rest of her things himself and send them to her as soon as possible. Marwood couldn't say he hadn't seen it coming. He had seen his previous relationships fade away as he sat and watched like a lonely spectator in a cinema.

Dottie was caring and full of energy, yet so composed. He had fallen for the little snort she made when she laughed and how embarrassed she was by it. He first heard it when he tripped on a cable backstage and landed on his face. She hadn't been able to hold herself back despite his reputation of being somewhat intimidating. He had liked that. He had smiled awkwardly at her, and the following week he was naked on top of her.

They had been together for 6 months, but during the last two Marwood had been distracted, uninterested, and apparently, too invested in his new role as Torvald in Dollhouse. It felt like an excuse to isolate himself. Theatre had always been his safe place where he could be someone else, with other problems and other struggles. He didn't have to worry about ruining the third, maybe fourth meaningful relationship in his life and he could let out all the anger, grief, and sadness, things he was incapable of doing off stage. Fame had changed him, yes, it made him more reserved and emotionally drained. Marwood found shelter as he stood crying in front of thousands of people but felt exposed, naked in his own house, even with the woman who loved him sitting so close. He wasn't unsatisfied or depressed, but the fact that he didn't seem to mind Dottie leaving wasn't reassuring. It was like being on the edge of a cliff: quiet, tranquil, subdued and a dull, awfully repetitive panorama extending all around him, but one step and he would have been able to hear the tides' pounding roar on the rocks. The void, the unknown he was so afraid of because of its turbulence and mystery. At some point, he had stopped craving that uncertainty in his life, yet he had been feeling himself getting old again lately. A different thought from the ones he used to have when he was 20 and was in a rush to experience everything present in the range of human emotions. No, this time he was just desperate to slow down this emotive decadence corroding him slowly, like a piece of seaglass blunted and smoothed daily by the waves.

He picked the bottle up from the fridge and a glass from the counter. He poured himself half a glass, in the right kind too, but left it untouched to grab the bottle by its neck instead, hating himself thoroughly. He slumped on the couch and turned on the television, settling on whatever was playing. When he realized it was The Seven Year Itch he didn't even mind and by the time it had ended the bottle was on the floor with half an inch left. Marwood had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position, legs folded on the couch and his right arm squeezed between his head and the armrest.

The following morning, the television was still on broadcasting the weather forecast.

_It's going to be a fine morning today in London, Sarah, but don't forget to bring your umbrella with you because rains are predicted for the evening..."_

 Marwood woke up with a jolt, his glasses crooked and tangled in his hair. His mouth felt like he had swallowed a handful of chalk. He groaned and sat on the couch, covering both eyes with his hands. _Bad, bad, bad idea, Peter_ , he thought. Not his brightest move when he knew he wasn’t desperate for it.

He stood up and stretched his numb arm on his way to the bathroom. He didn't look at his reflection for too long before opening the medicine cabinet, swallowing his vitamins and two aspirins with a gulp of tap water. He checked his agenda as the bathtub filled up: Lunch with his agent at 12, a radio interview at 3, a meeting with producers at 4.30, then he was free until 7.30, when he had dinner with Dott- no, no dinner with Dottie. So he had a free night. He considered inviting James over for a split second, but then he remembered his resounding laughter and how he didn't seem able to hold back the tears after his third beer. Marwood decided it wouldn't have been good for him to see him, not now.

He sat on the tub, the steam dancing on the surface of the water. He was half smoking a cigarette retrieved from the depths of his underwear drawer. His agent didn't want him to smoke and Dottie was very strict on the matter, her dear uncle dying because of lung cancer. Marwood’s brand of choice was Lucky Strike, but when he had entered the shop with his head low and sunglasses on the Woodbines displayed on the counter had caught his attention. He was in a rush so he bought them without thinking. He got into the tub and felt his body abandon him

* * *

  
“Dottie left me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know? How?”

“She called me. She was just worried about you and wanted me to make sure you're okay.”

“Honestly... she's a darling. I'm doing fine, but please don't tell her that I said that.”

“You're underestimating her, Marwood.”

“I could never.”

Colleen raised an eyebrow as she brought the glass to her lips. Defining her as just his agent or his friend would have been reductive. Only one other person in his life before had known him so well that they hardly needed to interact to know whether something was amiss. Most of the times, it was Marwood who was riddled with some newfound anxiety or paranoia, she broke it down and analysed it to calm him down. She was too composed for her own good, it was almost intimidating, but it was her job to be organized and precise.

“What now?”

“I don't know. I'll focus on _Dollhouse_ like I was doing before. What do you want me to tell you, Colleen? It's for the best. Maybe that stuff just isn’t for me, that's all.”

Colleen brought her eyes down to her plate with a sigh of fond exasperation, and Marwood smiled at her. Something in him released, like a knotted elastic band untying and singing with a bouncing sound. She didn't need words to tell him that he shouldn't worry about his reflective nature, as long as it wasn't a source of discomfort.

“Do you believe there will ever be someone able to stand my silent and detached nature?” Marwood quipped knowing it would garner an incredulous, yet amused stare.

“Oh, shut up. Shut up.” Colleen laughed, "You're loud enough on stage.”

Marwood grinned at her, then dropped the matter entirely. Lingering there made his head hurt as he recalled that morning's hangover.

“Is it all set for the RADA workshop? Have you agreed on the dates with Talbot?”

 “Oh, yeah, all set. The first week of December seems the most appropriate. Is that alright?”

“If you believe it is, then you have my blind trust on the matter.” He declared with feigned solemnity.

“Very well, my good sir.” She joked back, “The timetable will be ready shortly. As for the subjects you're asked to cover with the students, there's improvisation in cinema, accents-”

“Please just mail it to me.” He interrupted.

“You know, for a professional actor who graduated with excellent grades from one of the most prestigious acting schools in the world, you sure have a shit memory.”

“It's called selective memory, Colleen, I'm not surprised a mathematical brain like yours can't comprehend the mind of an artist!” He proclaims, eternally grateful for the banter Colleen and he had. It lifted the weight off the stress of organizing his busy life. He couldn't ask for a better manager.

“Watch it, Peter, this mathematical brain is the only reason you can still get a job, or else you'd even be late to your own show.” She retorted, in perfect fashion and timing.

 

They went on joking between serious matters, Colleen diligently filling pages on Marwood's agenda. Once they were done they sat in silence in front of each other, Marwood looking at his cup of coffee, Colleen absentmindedly flipping through a notebook's scribbled pages.

“How's Laura? I haven't seen her in months.”

Colleen blinked a couple of times before replying: “She's... She's doing well, thank you. She got that desk at Oxford after all, so we're seeing each other less often now, but she was so happy, Peter! You should have seen her!” Her initial attempt to sound reserved failed as her voice warmed with affection and her eyes locked with Marwood's, who was listening, his heart light at seeing his friend so in love.

“I'm glad. She deserved it. I'm sure she will be an excellent lecturer.” Marwood said quietly, but with all the honesty in the world.

 “Thank you, Peter.”

 

* * *

 

 Marwood opened the door for Colleen, who thanked him briefly and waved goodbye with the hand that wasn’t holding the umbrella. Marwood didn't move immediately, instead he stood near the restaurant's entrance, the plastic above shielded him from the rain with a soft drumming. Rivulets of filthy water raced on the pavement, dutifully purifying the city like veins pumping blood through a rotting heart. The new, relatively clean smell burnt his way into Marwood's lungs that were tender from that morning's regret laden cigarette. He stood there for a couple of minutes and watched his hot breath fog the traffic in front of him. Hollowness tugged at his chest once again, making some organ in his ribcage leap and spasm, accompanied by a ragged sigh. As he pulled the collar of his coat up and headed towards the studios, he dwelt his turbid thoughts on what he had said to Colleen. He felt a raindrop run its cold nails down his knotted back which brought relief to his stinging, straining muscles. Marwood wished he was good enough of an actor to desensitize himself without repercussions on his performance. He wished to escape this enigmatic but not painless pull to something, or rather someone he couldn't see. It was a nostalgic sensation, one that would have had the aftertaste of hope if he hadn't been thirty five. Perhaps the workshop at RADA was the source of his recent emotional regression. To be thrown back in time with the current experience. How surreal, how oniric, even, he thought.

Suddenly feeling his brain willing to cooperate again, he picked up the pace, with newfound urgency in getting in a warm place, pen and paper at hand.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally, right? I want to thank all three of you guys for not sending me threatening messages for the lack of regular updates. They would have been well deserved but also, it's only partially my fault. Also finally Marwood's pov! Depressed bastard au


	4. Withnail

Withnail awoke with a weight on his chest that obstructed his breathing. _'This is it,’_ he thought, _‘I'm finally dying. And today, too, how convenient!’_ He brought his hands to his ribcage, gasping for air, where his fingers met a warm, furry, and very much alive mass. He lifted Charles from his chest with a groan and gently put him on the floor. He had fallen asleep on the couch last night. Maybe he had exaggerated a bit with his sleeping pills, but judging from the dark glow coming out of his windows it still hadn't been enough to knock him out cold, showing that his nervousness had been stronger than the chemical. He sat up and tried to get rid of the numbness, the unpleasant feeling that made his brain feel like a taxidermy specimen, by resting his cold hands on his face.

“Couldn't you put me out of my misery for once, Charles? Suffocate me in my sleep?” He moaned, but the cat just kept looking at him with eyes wide with hunger.

“You're surely fat enough to do that.”

 

He checked his watch. 5.26 am. There it was, the prospect of a dreadful day ahead of him. December had come crawling slowly, dragging along its empty holiday cheer: all those pretty lights, shiny decorations, windows blinding in their clutter, and excited children. It all felt like one giant mockery of his unhappy situation. Withnail, of course, for various reasons which range from his general dislike for his relatives to his existential pessimism was left indifferent, if not annoyed, by the festive atmosphere; but he was far from indifferent to Marwood and him meeting again after ten years. Now that it was inevitable to let Marwood back into his life again, he had started to take a curiosity in his works. Above all, he found a cynical delight into reading gossip magazines, with their grainy photos and shameless speculations, they always got a laugh out of him. He couldn't help but smile at that load of bollocks. _“Tin Soldier Star Peter Marwood Caught Exchanging Sweet Gazes With His Agent In A Café ”,_ the magazine announced. While he prided no knowledge on Marwood's love life he could tell that those gazes, rather than sweet, were tired and heavy with a recent hangover, as the red contour on Marwood's eyes suggested. Withnail was then hit by a wave of bitterness, wishing he could have forgotten Marwood's body during all these years.

The wave he had felt grew stronger when he had watched London After Sunset, supposedly a horror film, but it was a poor façade for what was actually a steamy, cheap romance between a brooding, intellectual vampire and an inexperienced young heiress. So really, the only truly frightening thing was the script. Both the actors did what they could with shabby, clichéd dialogue. Marwood trying so hard to find some sort of chemistry between him and his co-star, with no such luck, as she kept staring at him with heavy lidded eyes that made her look bored and weary. She must have thought it was an enticing expression, Withnail reasoned, there was no other explanation for it. He could see Marwood's nervous smile tugging traitorously at the corners of his mouth whenever he came across a painfully cheesy line. After all, Withnail did find all of this rather amusing, even if he had found himself too attentive to Marwood's character.

  
Despite the early hour he did not fall asleep again, opting to get ready, both physically and mentally, for his classes. First thing he did was fed Charles, who was becoming annoying and dangerously clingy. Then he let the shower head run until he saw condensation forming on the shower glass. He stood for a good half an hour under the hot jet, mentally rehearsing his first words to Marwood, debating whether he should shave. He came up with the answer shortly after, he had shaved yesterday and a bit of stubble would maintain a cool casualty. It was just enough to show Marwood that he took care of himself but wasn't so nervous about this whole business that he had to be impeccable. Then he was on to thinking about what to wear as he turned the shower handle to the coldest setting for the last 30 seconds, trying to wash out the medication remaining in his system.

After pairing his best white shirt with a perfectly decent waistcoat and velvet jacket, he walked to the kitchen where he leaned on the counter, too nauseous to eat anything. He opted for a look at the past day's newspaper but nothing particularly interesting caught his eye. However, reading about murders and politics sure kept his mind off other more impending matters.

He still had time, but chose not to have breakfast in case the tension got unbearable and made his stomach twist in on itself. Then, as his usual routine, he gathered his stuff and headed to school. For once, the morning traffic seemed like the placid and cool flowing of a river rather than the usual nerve-wracking congestion he was accustomed to. Withnail even took a moment to taste all that noise and rage filling the air like the fine powders coughed out by exhaust pipes. The world outside, for how frenetic it could appear, couldn't keep the pace of his own thoughts, and thank fuck, Withnail mentally added.

Withnail reached the building ten minutes earlier than normal. As he opened the car door, his legs seemed to obey rather than give in to the rational pull of his mind, to some cowardly instinct that yelled ‘hit the gas and never stop driving until we get to the Scottish border’. Withnail ignored this wild, yet tempting fantasy to slam the car door behind him, making the battered frame of his Mini tremble slightly.

Just by passing the corridors and staircases Withnail could touch the excitement electrifying the whole building. He could also touch the top of his locker without his jacket turning into an improvised duster. Withnail couldn't hide an impressed smirk. Finally, after 6 years, he had seen the physical proof that the janitors hadn't just been hired to fuel the hallway gossip on teachers. Not all evil comes to harm then, he thought.

Withnail was expecting exactly the same climate that hit him when he walked into the theatre. The students' excitement was today quieted down by a vague anxiety that manifested itself in an apparent calmness between the group, but that was easily unmasked by nervous glances and skittish movements. The entire room fell silent as soon as the class noticed Withnail walking in. They all looked at him attentively, but unable to control the eyes darting all over the room, as if Peter Marwood himself, flesh and bones, was going to come out of the woodwork. Withnail would have made fun of them, but it seemed highly hypocritical considering the fact that he felt his heart thrashing in his ribcage stronger each minute that passed. Well, hypocrisy had never stopped him before, had it? After all, Withnail did notice the special care in which the girls' lips and eyes were brightly painted and even the boys' hair was neatly combed. Withnail scoffed, even if his exhale got stuck on his throat at some point.

“For Christ's sake, what's the matter with you all? Calm down. It's not the first time you've met a professional actor, I trust. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Withnail's icy greeting was met with embarrassed and self-conscious looks from the class, meaning that he had hit the spot, even if he was the one most likely to embarrass himself in front of Marwood. Not quite satisfied with the students' reaction, Withnail continued his scornful lecture:

“If you lot put as much effort on learning your bloody parts as you put into embellishing yourselves for someone who will forget your names in a matter of seconds, we could stage The Mistress Of The Inn in weeks. Now please, take your seats. I have some announcements to make before Mr. Marwood arrives, which should happen in two hours. So if you thought you were exonerated from regular class today, you were mistaken.”

The last statement generated a groan from the students and Withnail knew he had substituted their anxiety with annoyance, which was better for all.

Withnail soon found himself imagining how the Marwood he had known would have reacted to all of this. Shy, nervous Marwood dealing with a class of excited, enamored young actors. The thought was then rapidly pushed away as it became more painful than amusing.

Two hours passed quickly, too quickly. Talbot hadn't actually given Withnail the precise hour he would have come knocking at the door with Peter behind him, ready to introduce him to the class. This resulted in Withnail manically checking his watch during the lapse of time roughly 20 minutes before 11 a.m. with his ears too focused on external sounds instead of his students' performances. He would have felt guilty for the poor pupil expecting a feedback from him if the matter wasn't so excruciatingly maddening for him.

 

Around 11.03 a.m Withnail heard the unmistakable creaking of wood under the principal's heavy pace, and in that moment he was pretty sure he felt his heart stop and drop to the floor, like it was held in his chest purely by tension. He was afraid to look down, in case he would have seen an unhealthy mass of red muscle crawling its way out of his body. Even as the rest of his body was slowly turning into marble his legs still had the gall to move on their own, this time determined to run until Scotland since the car wasn't in their control anymore.

But no. He sat still. He would have waited for the knocking on the door.

Which promptly came, but before he could even answer, his class had already invited the principal in. Withnail didn't have it in him to get the slightest bit angry for this mild insubordination, not even in front of the principal.

 Withnail was thankful that his desk was in the corner or else he would have been immediately noticed. He was also glad for the students on stage who drew the attention away from him, even if it was brief.

“Good morning class," greeted Talbot, met by the same salutation. He was unable to hide his own mild excitement. "As you were informed, Mr. Peter Marwood is here for the annual cinema workshop. Please give him a warm welcome.”

Which came even without the principal's solicitation, obviously.

Withnail couldn't look, not yet, but he could see him in his field of view. It was a matter of seconds now. Both the principal and Marwood were looking at the small, adoring crowd in front of them for now, but he knew he was the next in line for Marwood's attention.

“Now, if you will excuse us, we have a few matters to discuss with your teacher.” Announced Talbot, not without nervousness, but nothing compared to Withnail, who wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and took a few steps to meet Talbot halfway.

 He put on his most convincing smile, which was still rigid and unnatural. It didn't last long because it dropped, like whatever was the mush he felt in his chest now, as soon as his eyes landed on Marwood's surprised face, mouth slightly agape.

 “Mr. Marwood, this is, uh, Vivian Withnail, our acting coach.” Talbot said hesitantly, with his eyeballs going back and forth between Marwood and Withnail like a ping-pong ball. "But perhaps introductions aren't necessary. I have reason to believe you two have already met." He tried with a forced smile, but not nearly enough to defrost the atmosphere.

 Withnail found enough composure in himself to attempt a smile, which ended up being a spastic tug that only affected the left side of his face, then extended his cold hand in an attempt to shake Marwood's. The other man was having a reaction stronger than expected, as he had not changed expression since he first saw Withnail, mouth still open, eyes scrutinizing every wrinkle on Withnail's face. After a dozen seconds, Marwood gave signs of life despite breathing, almost whispering incredulously:

" _Vivian?"_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think it's going to be smooth sailing from now on I've got bad news for you sunshine. Jokes aside, i really enjoy writing Withnail.


	5. Marwood

 

“We've never used each other's first names. Why start now, Marwood?” Withnail replied, glacial.

Marwood could have even remembered that Withnail hated his first name, but he was genuinely speechless and utterly taken aback by the events of the last couple of seconds. Withnail. Withnail. It was him, in front of Marwood as icy as ever, just as tall and composed as he remembered with his posed aristocratic aura still hovering around him. The skin around his eyes was more bruised by insomnia than the last time he saw him, wrinkles that couldn't be smoothed by a good night's sleep anymore. Despite this, his hair was pulled back with care, his clothes pristine, and his shoes intact. He couldn't tell if this was the same Withnail that led him astray years ago, during another life that seemed almost parallel to his existence. Appearance aside, it was him and he was waiting for any kind of response to his words, since he had given him none. Marwood pulled himself back together from shock and shook Withnail's cold, knobbly hand.

“Right. Sorry, Withnail, I, uh—it's an unexpected pleasure meeting you again.” He tried, with his usual nervous smile. Damn him, ten years and that's all he could manage!

He saw Withnail's eyebrows shoot up, a hint of sarcastic smile on his lips.

“I wish I could say the same, Marwood.” Withnail replied with a grin and turned to the principal, leaving Marwood dumbfounded at his rude statement. Talbot didn't seem to notice as he was discussing the upcoming lesson's schedule, which he already knew.

Wait. So Withnail, Vivian Alan James Withnail, renown alcoholic and substance abuser known for laziness and chronic inability to get a job, was that same man who taught at RADA. Marwood sure had missed a lot during these years. His mind was racing, elaborating a series of questions that needed answers from Withnail. That came later, though, as he had a class to teach. Marwood hoped he wouldn't have been too distracted by Withnail's unexpected presence, but his thoughts were interrupted by the principal's voice:

“Very well, I'll leave you two gentlemen to it. Mr. Marwood.” He said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He then turned to Withnail, and gave him a complicit yet concerned look. “Vivian.”

He closed the door behind him carefully and for a couple of seconds there was a deafening, pregnant silence that was killed off by Withnail.

“Well, shall we start?” He said as he took a symbolic step back, to encourage Marwood to take the lead. "If you please, Marwood.”

Withnail's polite smile did not meet his eyes and Marwood couldn't help but swallow nervously a lump as he shot him a puzzled look.

“Yes. Well. Why don't we start with your names? I'll try my best to learn them by the end of next week.”

  
And so the lecture started with Marwood trying a friendly approach with the students, who looked eager yet tense at first, and tried to make them feel comfortable. No good performance came out of an actor who was uncomfortable with the director. They seemed well trained, which wasn't a surprise, this was RADA after all. But thinking that this was due to Withnail's teaching would have been a hilarious statement to his younger self.

Withnail had known they would meet again and not only did he make no attempt to contact him and let him know he had gotten a desk at RADA, he also seemed displeased about it. It couldn't be for the way they had parted, could it? Marwood knew there were more pleasant ways to say goodbye to one another, but he certainly had been as saddened by his departure as Withnail was. Plus, Withnail couldn't have been too heartbroken by it since he never attempted to contact him again. Marwood would have done it, but he knew very well that their old flat wasn't furnished with a phone. Withnail could have just used a payphone and called the theatre in Manchester if he missed him that much, but he never attempted such. If this was the reason for his cold attitude, it was not only unfounded but unfair. Marwood even recalls ringing Withnail's family, but the other end of the line just kept making vague excuses as to why Withnail wasn't there and why there was no phone number or address he could have contacted. Marwood thought about writing once he reached Manchester, but Withnail's wound in his pride was probably still fresh and narrating about his wonderful experience with the rest of the cast and crew seemed indelicate.

He had moved back to London six months later and decided to visit the old apartment to see how Withnail was getting on, but he appeared to have vanished. No one answered the door and even if the landlord swore there was still a tenant in that apartment, the only furniture remaining from the enormous mess he remembered was a mattress, some covers eaten by moths, a table with precarious equilibrium, their stove and sink, and the posters and magazine scraps they put on together. The rest of it was missing.

He then tried to find Danny, anywhere, asking the shadiest Londoners in the darkest alleys, but no one had seen him either. He could have asked Monty but his skin crawled at the thought of interacting with that man once again. What could that lunatic have known about Withnail's whereabouts, anyhow?

Marwood got really busy soon enough. Despite his initial guilt on the matter, he had to give up looking for a man that evidently didn't want to be found. His fame kept him occupied, soon he found himself stuck in relationships he would have rather avoided, but that was the business. Marwood realized he needed to let go, especially if Withnail had relinquished any lingering feelings as soon as he took off for Manchester.

It's life, Marwood had thought. Withnail vanished, and he had a job that was pushing him towards stardom. After all those years, Marwood stopped thinking about Withnail. Occasionally he popped up into his mind, yet Marwood had given up on perceiving him as a concrete person. In a decade, Withnail had turned into a bittersweet projection of his youth, the amusing tale of a madman to narrate during galas, slick hand intertwined with his wife's. Sometimes when laughing about all the instances where he had to run from angry Irishmen, he could feel his laughter being killed by a slight sadness that had never actually left him when it came back to those years.

What to do with all of that now that Withnail was inches from him? Marwood needed to tell him something, anything, or else he would have exploded. But coherence of thought seemed impossible at the moment, it was slippery as a wet bar soap as he tried to focus on too many things: the students, his words, his thoughts and that haunting presence behind his shoulders.

Despite everything, the lesson flowed quite smoothly. Marwood managed to get the students comfortable and even dared to crack a few jokes, which were welcomed warmly. Withnail, noticed Marwood, had been sitting on the desk the entire time with feigned indifference while carefully writing down notes. Marwood guessed they were for his students.

Three hours passed rather quickly, Marwood's mouth was dry at the end of them. As the students were putting away their stuff in their bags, Marwood approached the desk where he had left his own bag, the desk on which Withnail was sitting. He tried not to stare as he searched for his water bottle. When he saw that all the students were ready to leave, Marwood made them repeat their names and parted them with a rather informal salute which was answered too formally for his liking.

When the last student shut down the door, Marwood exhaled, chest tight. He turned to face Withnail with all the intention of starting a conversation, but the other man seemed ready to bolt out of the door just like an inpatient scholar. Marwood wasn't surprised and he attempted anyway:

“So, I-”

“Stop where you are. Is this about the lesson?”

“What? No. I mean, yes, also, but I wondered if we could discuss more private matters first?”

Marwood tried. His polished tone didn't actually reflect how much he wanted to grab Withnail by his shoulders and shake him back and forth until a rational explanation for what had happened in the last three hours appeared. _Where have you been, you bastard, I looked for you,_ He wanted to scream.

“In that case, I'd prefer if we kept things on the professional side for now. Or until the end of the workshop, really. I see no point in indulging in nostalgia when we're both here to do our respective jobs. I trust you're capable of doing your job without invading my privacy, yes?” Withnail said, and Marwood swore he could have felt venom dripping from his ear down to his neck with every syllable.

Marwood felt frustration building up at the base of his throat.

“I'm trying to understand! Do you really expect me to just... never address this? Ever?” He said, proud of how composed and mature his tone appeared in front of Withnail's childish attempts to avoid the situation.

“Precisely.”

“Where have you been all these years?”

“London.”

“That's it?”

“Why do you think you're entitled to know anything at all about my private life, Marwood?”

Marwood didn't know what to think or what to say. The answer could have been obvious. _Because we were friends, because I used to care about you,_ he wanted to say, but Withnail seemed too caught up on ignoring that they even used to know each other.

Marwood scoffed without looking at Withnail, he picked up his bag and left, closing the door more vehemently than he intended to.

He was too old to run after a child holding decade old grudges that had no reason to be held. If Withnail wasn't interested in a friendly approach to their collaboration—because that's what it was all about; a liveable environment for his their students, right?—then it was his loss.

Here's one thing that ten years apart managed to make Marwood forget: Withnail used to be, and still was, an insufferable, immature, petty, selfish, narcissistic, overdramatic, irresponsible bastard. If he had decided to make this hard for Marwood, then he wouldn't have been so foolish to take the bait. Here's another thing: ten years apart did him good. He understood what being professional meant. He had known what working with people who loathed you meant. Withnail, apparently, did not and once again, it was on him. He was the one sabotaging his own position, not Marwood.

 All the words that his brain couldn't stop vomiting, covered in bile and resentment he didn't think he had in him were enough to cover the ringing in his ears until he closed the door of his car with a slam. Marwood felt deaf for a second. He looked at his reflection on the rearview mirror: pale, hands slightly shaking. _Fuck you, Withnail_ , he thought. _F_ _uck you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh yall like. men with no emotional maturity at all?


	6. Withnail

Withnail leaned his entire weight on his front door as he jammed the key into the hole, tired and angry. When the door opened he stepped in and dropped his bag unceremoniously on the floor and threw himself on the couch, not caring whether Charles was sitting on it—luckily for the both of them, he wasn't. He didn't even bother to unlace his boots, that weren't touching the leather anyway, as he laid with his head on one armrest and his legs on the other. He brought his arm across his face and welcomed the darkness that the crook of his elbow cast upon his swollen eyes. It soothed his throbbing head as he let out a broken huff that terminated with a soft cough. Withnail stayed like that for ten minutes or so, gathering the strength to get up and maybe cook dinner, take a shower, watch some television, feed Charles, read something, do _anything_ that wasn't thinking. Yet, the idea of doing even one of the aforementioned things filled him with indefinite dread and fatigue that turned getting up from the couch into a chore. He did regardless, but aside from feeding Charles he completely discarded the other activities. Instead he reached into the cupboard to fetch an unopened, cheap-looking bottle of red wine he had bought months ago for cooking purposes, he had told himself back in the supermarket. There wasn't a square inch of his brain, conscious or subconscious, that had believed that lie. He rummaged through a couple of drawers before finding a rusty corkscrew that he used to pop the cork that came off with little strained whines.  
  
He hated how the sour wine in his throat burnt more than his guilt, how the acidity corroded his pride. Withnail hadn't grown an inch taller, gotten one year older, or become any wiser from his past self. He suppressed a bitter laugh that made him nothing but hate himself more. He was sort of feeling sick despite having drunk barely a glass, but it’s not that he had any way of knowing, since no glasses were ever involved from the start. However, Withnail kept chugging with even more avidity, hoping that he would have gotten drunk soon enough to stop feeling any unpleasant physical side effect.  
  
Withnail got back to the couch and reached for a book on the coffee table, he placed it on his chest just to give himself the impression of doing something else other than getting pathetically arseholed. After a handful of minutes, he could feel a warm pulse on his cheeks and rib cage that only encouraged him to take more gulps. He could sense his limbs giving in from exhaustion and tensing out, now flopping ungracefully to his side, extremities tingling. Withnail's jaw was slack and he was aware, instead he kept focusing on his breathing and the ceiling lights that were pleasantly starting to blend and spin, making him feel as if he was on a carousel, a rather sad one at that.

The bottle was half empty but Withnail kept going, determined to finish it as quick as possible. His eyes were starting to burn so he let them slide close, allowing himself to drift off for good. He didn't know how much of his thoughts actually translated into developed images in his head, everything felt extremely disconnected. Withnail knew that whatever his mind went to, it was about Marwood. He was grateful that everything was too hazy to be able to rationally reach out at the feeling attached to those images. It was just him, his nervous smile and attempts at sounding composed. Then there was his hair, like brass, his stupid blue cashmere sweater, when had he seen it last? Was it that morning? Was it ten years ago with his hand clasping Withnail's shoulder? He wasn't saying anything, thank God.

Withnail finished the wine and couldn't help sticking out his reddened tongue at the taste of the solid residuals at the bottom of the bottle. Withnail could hear his blood flow inside his head, and aside from that, it was all so pleasantly dull and tasteless. So far away and peaceful, nothing like the truth. At the moment it was enough for him, regret was always for the morning after.

His chest shivered with each breath and just like that, after an undetermined amount of time along with stuttering attempts at falling asleep, he reached a semi-conscious slumber. If his flushed skin, that alternated from cold to warm, felt like it was being touched, he wouldn't have been able to tell the morning after. Withnail lost himself in the perception of that moment and let himself collapse for good.

 

* * *

 

For once, Withnail had been extremely grateful for Charles' loud cries at six in the morning, or else he wouldn't have woke up from his tortured sleep. He groaned noisily trying to lessen the pain, with no results. Sitting up turned out to be an agonizing movement, so he had to rest for a full minute with his hands over his eyes. He tried to catch his breath and make blood flow to the rest of his body, not just the temples that seemed to be throbbing with rivers of it. As he stood up, with extreme care, he felt a wave of nausea hitting him where his stomach began, but being used to it he didn't have to rush to the bathroom. Once reached it, he found out he didn't have it in him to empty his stomach, he just had to cough and spit the unpleasant taste out of his throat to feel immediately better. He washed his mouth first and then his face. He didn't need to look at himself in the mirror to know he looked terrible.

He dragged his feet to the kitchen, fed Charles who in the meantime had jumped on the counter, and settled into the morning ritual: eating, taking medication, washing and dressing up. Everything took longer than usual, but it was fine, he needed time.  
  
Withnail soon realized it was time to leave the house for work, feeling a jag of annoyance and a pang of something else at the thought of seeing Marwood again. Not that he had a choice. His bag was still  lying where he had dropped it the evening before, he patted the dust away before putting it on his shoulder and stepping out. The weather wasn't much different from the day before, but Withnail was sure he could smell an impending snow and just wished to be wrong. His neighbour was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was either early or late. His arm moved so he could read the hour on his wrist watch before the knowledge that it had been stopped for a couple of months hit him. Damn. Withnail decided to get in the car just in case he was late, which was proven to be true by the increased amount of traffic and the radio, which confirmed him that he was ten minutes behind schedule.

So much for the good impression he had imposed himself to give just two days prior. The delay had extended to fifteen minutes once reached the academy and Withnail killed the car engine with all the irritation he could muster in a flick of his wrist. However, he didn't rush to class, he walked calmly so he would look composed enough upon entering the theatre.

Much to his surprise, Marwood had already started his lecture. He was sitting on his desk, legs swinging a couple of inches off the ground, and he was smiling amicably at the students who seemed to be hanging onto every word that fell from his lips. His entrance was barely noticed, except for Marwood, who fixed his gaze on him and brought Withnail under the entire class' attention in a fraction of second. Marwood's smile had fallen as soon as he saw Withnail, there were no more wrinkles at the side of his eyes. Withnail swore he could have seen them glinting, almost, with genuine passion and lack of shame in showing it in front of anyone, which made Withnail's blood boil.

“Please excuse my lateness, class, I got stuck in a traffic jam. We may continue with our lecture now.” Withnail chewed out, carefully not addressing Marwood yet still feeling his judgemental gaze as he approached his desk. He avoided showing his face to him or any of his students, suddenly very aware of his bruised eyes and clammy complexion.

Marwood however, to Withnail's relief, paid him no mind and jumped off the desk as to signal that he was ready to properly start the lecture now that the teacher was with them.  
  
Marwood rolled his sleeves just before his elbows and ran a hand through his hair, that looked a bit wilder than yesterday, Withnail observed. He watched him get on stage with the rest of the class and starting to give instructions, explaining whatever exercise he had in mind with detail. Withnail wasn't really following, he had to admit. Technically he wasn't allowed to, but he light up a cigarette as no one was paying attention to him anyway. Except for Marwood, of course. He noticed his scowl as soon as his lighter switched on. Withnail just stared back. ' _Come on. Say something, since you want to play the teacher so badly, I dare you.'_

Marwood said nothing.

The first hour passed tortuously for Withnail but the same couldn't be said for the rest of the class.  
  
“Withnail, alright with you if we take a break? I won't be able to interrupt the following two hours and I don't want to drain them, I need them lucid.” Marwood said and Withnail had to shake himself out of his thoughts.

“Sure, go ahead.” He replied, as if he had any way to say no if he wanted to.

“Great. Ten minutes then.”

Withnail assumed the last part was for his students.

Marwood got off the stage and approached the desk, within that time Withnail mentally braced himself.

“I'm headed to the break room. Do you want a cup of tea? Coffee?” Marwood asked, hesitating a couple steps in front of the desk. Withnail choked on his spit for a second. What was he doing? Why was he acting so admirably after yesterday? What did he have in mind?

“No, thank you, Marwood.” He responded drily. If he was planning something, and he sure was, it was better not to lead him on. Stubborn bastard—why couldn't he keep it professional!

Marwood shrugged and left the room at a sustained pace just to come back five minutes later with a chipped cup of steaming coffee. He sat on the edge of the stage and sipped it absentmindedly, sometimes staring into the turbid, cheap beverage and sometimes looking at the students. Withnail suppressed a smile when he noticed his glasses starting to fog.

Marwood looked at his watch and he didn't have to say a word. He simply left the cup on Withnail's desk and moved onto the stage that the students were already attentively gathering around him on.

Since Marwood had switched on the cameras that were situated on tripods, Withnail assumed that this was the part where the class would have their first venture of being recorded. Well, wasn't that just perfect? Withnail was bored to death and too exhausted to pay attention to what was going on. Having recorded material that he could analyse any other day was a blessing. Withnail then reached in his bag to pick out the book he was reading, Opium by Jean Cocteau. Alright, actually rereading, and he was glad to be familiar with the writing or else he wouldn't have been able to focus on it.

With Marwood's voice clear and resounding, which contrasted with that of his students, he let the hours pass in a mixture of headache and dizziness that could have been improved if he had just said yes to that bloody coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, i forgot to mention earlier, Withnail's cat is named after Charles Baudelaire. Maybe it's not the best name for a cat, but let's not act like Withnail would care.


	7. Marwood

Withnail looked like shit. His eyes were more bruised than usual, his already pale skin shone with sweat under the warm light, and his hands shook as he gripped the pencil. He was a sorry sight Marwood was disappointed but not surprised to witness. He couldn't say he felt bad for the bastard, not after the way they had parted the day before, but at least he knew that Withnail's attempts at keeping what he defined a "professional distance" were not working too well on him either. Marwood, despite how much he loathed to admit it, was quite shaken by their encounter. A less mature version of himself would have gone home, had a panic attack, gotten drunk and passed out face flat on the couch.

But he was thirty five now, so the first thing he did when he got home was call Colleen, his agent. He dialled her number with numb fingers, torturing the chord as he held the receiver with a vicious grip. Colleen was patient and it immediately calmed him. He was sure that she had never seen him, or rather, heard him in that state, not even before his first true press conference. Marwood obeyed her voice, which was raspy from cigarettes and tired from overworking, and managed to construct a rational flow of words. He explained to Colleen that yes, that very Withnail was now a teacher and he had to work with that resentful beast for two weeks. She seemed excessively amused by the situation, first remarking that Marwood should have read the list of teachers when she first asked him if he needed it, then she opted for a diplomatic approach: her voice had a weird intonation Marwood didn't recognize when she told him that he should try to settle things with Withnail. Marwood couldn't help but agree. It was so hard to hold any kind of hope on a subject like Withnail, but he wanted to try.

So he did. He pretended not to have been affected by Withnail's coldness the previous day and tried a friendly approach. He even asked him if he wanted anything to drink, with little results. But he still had a class to teach and didn't have time to observe each of Withnail's microexpressions trying to understand if he was offended or just confused by his gesture. He decided he would have talked to Withnail before he tried to run away like he previously did.

When his lesson was approaching its end, Marwood parted from the students a few minutes earlier than due so he could stop Withnail before he started to run for his car. Some of the students were still packing and very likely ready to eavesdrop whatever Marwood was about to say. The tension between Withnail and him was palpable, he was certain that some of the pupils had already picked up on that. Which came at his advantage, really, because Withnail couldn't get his way out of confrontation with venomous words without sounding like an utter cock to his students, too. Marwood wasn't even sure he actually cared about all that in the first place.

“Withnail, do you have a moment?” Marwood said as he leaned on Withnail's desk so he couldn't get up without Marwood moving. Fair, he was cornering him, but what else could he do?

“I-” Withnail began, but after glancing nervously around the room and realizing that some of the students were still present, he closed his mouth. This gave himself a few more seconds to gather up his thoughts. “All right.” He continued, “But not here.”

Marwood held back an exasperated sigh and let Withnail gather his stuff together before following him to whatever place he found more adept for their upcoming conversation. The spot turned out to be the steps right outside the stage's backdoor. Withnail leaned on the brick wall as he tried to light up a cigarette spasmodically, swearing at the lighter than didn't seem to cooperate under the cold breeze. It finally lit up, and he took an avid drag, exhaled and said:

“Well?”  
  
The brief lapse of time in which they had changed position was enough to glue Marwood's words in his throat, but he didn't want to back down.

“Withnail, I get it, it's weird and—look, I don't expect me and you to be in the best of terms right now but can't you at least make an effort to get along? Your students are brilliant but I can't go on teaching like this, it's unnerving.”

Withnail just kept sucking on his fag, looking somewhere between the bushes, with a pensive yet annoyed expression plastered on his face and no apparent intention to give Marwood a reply.

Marwood leaned against the brick wall not too close to Withnail as he fished for the Woodbines in his pocket. Before he could look for his lighter, Withnail handed him his.

  
“I thought you had quit.” Withnail observed, neutral.

“I did. It's just that sometimes... oh, you know.”

“Yeah.”

They didn't need many words when they were friends, but it was different now. The lack of interaction was tense, as if everything there was to say was a hidden mine that should be carefully avoided unless the desired outcome was a painful death.

They stayed like that, smoking and looking at the trimmed hedges as if they were holding the key to their reconciliation. Withnail finished his cigarette and put it out with the sole of his shoe.

“This is about the students, isn't it?” Withnail asked, with the tone of someone who's looking for reassurance.

Marwood smiled lightly, amused at the thought that Withnail either cared about his students enough to put aside his selfish grudges, or that he genuinely wanted to try a new approach to the matter. If he needed to cover it up by pretending to be doing that for the students' sake, well, Marwood couldn't care less. As long as the result was the same, Marwood would have accepted anything.

“It is. Although it really wouldn't harm you to be a little nicer in general, Withnail.” Marwood confirmed, with his tone light. It was answered with a hint of a smile, an apology maybe, or just acknowledgement.

“I'm not so sure of that.” Withnail joked, which naively sparked Marwood's hope for an even friendlier approach in the following days. Still, Withnail was a subject to be handled with pliers as he was too voluble and unpredictable. “I apologise for yesterday's welcoming. It was most unprofessional of me.”

The cold formality in Withnail's tone concealed lingering feelings of resentment, but Marwood took what he could get.

“It's quite all right, Withnail. I simply wasn't expecting it.”

Withnail took his words in and coughed a few times before extending an hand for Marwood to shake, which Marwood interpreted as peace offering that doubled as a goodbye for the day.

“See you tomorrow!” Marwood said, before Withnail could disappear into the building.

Marwood finished his cigarette before heading for his own car, which was parked on the other side of the building. He had been rather satisfied on how Withnail seemed to overcome his initial antagonism. Even if Marwood suspected it was nothing but pure courtesy, intimated by Talbot, or just by Withnail's own strictly practical need to not let personal matters interfere with his job.

Withnail was a stranger, a rather hard to deal with one, and Marwood should have just accepted it and went on with it. He should have let him play his own games, be the bigger man, and all that wise stuff a man without Marwood's emotional difficulties would have done. The truth is that this was a game that could have been played by the both of them, but Marwood stepped into the court waving a giant white flag. He didn't want to fight Withnail. He didn't want to go back in time and analyse each word, feel the same anguish, carry the same weight once again, just to be attacked and ignored. One word was like a nail planted in between his cerebral hemispheres: old. He was too old for this. Age often implied a certain maturity, but Marwood genuinely couldn't tell if he had it. His philosophy of avoiding conflict wasn't driven by experience and good will, but simply by cowardice, anxiety, and laziness. Or at least that's what he felt.

Christ, now that he thought about it, Withnail had recently turned forty. Now that made him feel weird. Hangover aside, he had expected him to look worse. Withnail probably knew about Marwood's private life, to a certain extent, while he made it clear that he didn't want to disclose any details of his own. Marwood would have been lying if he said he wasn't curious. Unfairly so but he was human after all. Withnail was a teacher now, so really, Marwood was ready to be surprised and anything was possible. For all he knew, Withnail could have just gone home to his wife and kids. Nothing was to be excluded at that point. Marwood chuckled to himself at the thought.

He knew that nothing was quite resolved. It would take him a great deal of time before things started to appear normal between them, yet Marwood couldn't help but feel as if a weight had been lifted from his chest as he drove to the theatre for the rehearsals. As always, Colleen had been right, even if Marwood wasn't convinced that she would have dealt with the matter in the same way he did. But she wouldn't have known how much of a victory this was: Withnail had actually apologized when he hadn't been forced to. Marwood's thoughts then drifted on Talbot, who seemed to be on good terms with Withnail. He had called him Vivian and gave him a weird look before heading to his office. Marwood could easily ask him and get answers if he wanted, but he couldn't get the academy involved. It almost felt like betrayal. Marwood knew that Withnail had something in him. It was something that had lured his young, fresh out of high school, hardly able to grow a beard self into a life of hedonism, fickle pleasures and financial instability. Now that very same odd fascination seemed to come back on a second wave, like a bloody acid tab. There was more shoved in the middle, bits and pieces of the both of them he picked up during the years, like Marwood's insecurities that almost comically contrasted with his forced public persona, and Withnail's natural propensity for the spotlight now translated into a job that had none of that. Then there were the rivers of cheap wine that blurred all the crossed lines, unsaid apologies, and toxic narcissism Marwood tried so hard not to forget. Withnail was deep inside full of contradictions. And so was he, especially of late.  
  
As he thought of the nature of his newfound relationship with Withnail, Marwood hardly realized he had reached his destination. He pulled himself together just in time to take a right turn and parked on the side of the road. He grabbed his bag and headed for the theatre, praying for the absence of paparazzi in the few feet that separated the destination from him. For the first time in weeks he was looking forward for collective rehearsals and human interaction and, not without perplexity, he caught himself thinking positively about the following day's lesson at the academy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter "midlife crisis" Marwood


	8. Withnail

Coward, that's what he was. A simple minded fool, a sneak, a traitor of his own mind! How could he succumb so easily to Marwood's pleading tone? How could he _not_? The students, damn them! He had gotten soft and Marwood saw it immediately because Withnail had let him. He just wished he had been egocentric enough to say that it was just for his own interest, but that wasn't the case: he would have rather stuck a cigarette butt in his eye than restoring his relationship with Marwood. What good was it, anyway? It's not like Marwood even cared about him, he knew it was just for show. Withnail even apologized to him and he was rather proud of that. It wasn't what he wanted to do but it was what a mature individual would have done. Never mind that he didn't fit in the category.  
  
Withnail hoped that Marwood's anxious nature would have prevented an actual development, but Marwood seemed so different. He had looked so tired, so grown up, so fastidiously controlled. Oh, Withnail was done for. Goodbye to his peace of mind and his tranquil, lonely living. Now that everything had been stirred up and brought back full force, it was impossible to escape it. He prayed that at the end of the following week Marwood would have just shook his hand and disappeared once again, like he did so perfectly a decade earlier. If Marwood was so good at letting go, why he was holding on? God, _fuck him_. And fuck the part of Withnail's brain that wished for a better ending.  
  
Withnail almost went insane with overthinking as he drove home later that evening. He stopped at the corner shop to grab something ready to eat and a pack of cigarettes before he headed home. Charles made a leap for the street as soon as the door swung open, but Withnail promptly stopped him with his leg and shoved him back in. Despite everything, it was good to be back home. The way the smell of his aftershave, his laundry detergent and tobacco combined and became imperceptible to him after a few minutes made him feel like he had a place he belonged to. He slumped on the couch and turned the telly on, not really paying attention to the news as he read the notes he had taken earlier in class. It was too early to have an opinion on the students' performance but he was still curious.  
  
The days following their confrontation didn't pass as Withnail expected. Marwood was surprisingly easy to converse with as long as he avoided his own personal matters. They mostly discussed their respective jobs. Marwood was more interested in cinema than he remembered, but it wasn't surprising. They had both fancied the seventh art in their youth, cultivating their passion rather illegally. They indulged in smuggling alcoholic drinks during the Buster Keaton special, even smoking a joint right before the 2001: A Space Odyssey screening. Withnail inevitably ended up snoring throughout the entire film, only waking up at the end of the near three hours just to see Marwood gripping his seat rigid from anxiety. It burnt a hole in his chest to remember such things and being unable to laugh at them fondly for fear of letting out too much. Marwood and him kept exchanging pleasantries, taking turns in bringing each other coffee or tea from the break room, and Marwood bumming a few drags of cigarette outside the theatre. Often without saying a word the entire time if not for some comments about the weather that so menacingly promised snow. But it wasn't them. Withnail had only known rudely refusing Marwood's watered down tea and the stealing his tobacco, but he couldn't help but feel like something was off in Marwood. As if it was all a façade and he had forgotten Withnail's true nature.

Yet, couldn't help interacting with him. Every time that he mentally scolded himself to go back to ignoring Marwood his own subconscious seemed determined on neglecting the rule. By Thursday he found himself being stared at by his fellow colleagues in the break room as he poured two cups of coffee instead of his usual one. He could feel his co-workers’ stares burning holes into his back, and to be fair, it was rather irritating. He didn't want them to mistake him for some devoted fan turned personal waiter for Mr. Marwood on the occasion.

Withnail broke the silence in the room:

“Peter and I go a long way back, if you were wondering.”

His usual caustic tone rung out, sick of being the centre of speculations behind this back. Before he could hear a stuttered reply he headed back towards the theatre, leaving the two gossipers rather perplexed. He wasn't sure that he wanted other people to know about the years in Camden with Marwood, but it was better than being confused for an admirer. As if he could ever _admire_ Marwood.

A couple of hours later during their, or rather Withnail's, cigarette break that was silently agreed to being outside the service door, right where they had first talked civilly for the first time in ten years. Marwood began explaining his rendition of Life Of Brian, along with his anecdotes about whichever member of Monty Python he had met and whatever impression he had on him. Withnail honestly couldn't recall the film for the life of him, but it was rather enjoyable to hear Marwood's mundane reminders. At some point the conversation died out and neither of them knew what to say, so they just passed a cigarette between them in silence.

“I was thinking, this place really hasn't changed much in twelve years.” Marwood initiated, startling Withnail from his wandering thoughts.

“Well, they've changed a few facilities.” resonated Withnail, remembering the creaking wood boards he and Marwood had to yell over.

“No, I didn't mean like that,” the other corrected as he fixed his gaze on the pavement, “I meant in an emotional way,”

Withnail snorted. When he first started teaching he had felt similar to Marwood, but then it all blurred into a meaningless routine; the seats Marwood and him used to fall asleep in and the bathrooms they hid and took amphetamines in, which was mostly Withnail to be fair, were just part of his tedious job. He was now the authority with none of the students' illusion of success.

“You're blinded by nostalgia. It's just an old building.” Withnail said, brushing away the thoughts of the past.

“Maybe you're simply used to working here.” replied Marwood, who looked like he was considering the option.

“Maybe you're having a midlife crisis.”

“Christ, Withnail, seventy is a bit early, isn't it?”

“I should get going.” Withnail broke off as soon as he finished the shared cigarette.

They walked down the empty hallways without a word said between them and stiffly said goodbye to each other in the middle of the parking lot.

“I hope it doesn’t start snowing while I'm on my way home.” said Marwood, scrunching his nose at the plumbous sky. “See you tomorrow!” he finished as he got into his car.

Withnail raised his head to the sky as well, thinking that he wasn't going to have such luck for himself. As predicted, he started to see small snowflakes appearing on his windshield when he hit the halfway mark. By the time he reached his front door a considerable layer of snow was already glazing the steps. The cold was unbearable, one more moment outside and he would have witnessed his lips cracking in a matter of seconds. The first thing he did once inside his home was start a fire in the fireplace, waiting for the room to warm up as the kettle was boiling. The following day would mark the end of his first week of collaboration with Marwood, and speaking purely from a didactic point of view, he had been satisfied with the results. The students promptly warmed up to Marwood when they saw him getting along with their teacher, and it wasn't surprising. He knew, deep down, that the little bastards were fond of him and valued his opinions.

Before he could catch himself getting any softer, Withnail sat on the couch with a book on his lap, which was soon to be overthrown by Charles, and sipped his tea. By the time he finished re-reading Opium it was around eight p.m. and he noticed that the size of the snowflakes had undoubtedly increased as he approached the window. But London never froze, not even when frosted in snow. The lamp posts outside made enough amber coloured glow for Withnail to distinguish the trees being shaken by a strong wind. He could feel the icy sensation radiating from the glass and went back over to the couch to slump more comfortably. He turned on the television hoping for a decent film despite the unfortunate time and period. One more Christmas film and Withnail had sworn to kill himself and indebt the funeral cost to the BBC. Luckily enough, Foolish Wives was on, so he could have postponed the suicide.

  
The next morning Withnail woke up to the metaphysical stillness of London's residential districts. The sky looked like soggy cotton batting but it was dry, mercifully sparing the metropolis of snow just for the morning. Withnail suspected it wasn't going to be a lasting fortune. The pavement and the roads had barely been crossed all night. The white mantle was hardly disrupted, with the exception of footprints from birds and the occasional late, or inhumanely early, wanderer.

Withnail started getting ready for his last lesson of the week a bit earlier than usual as he predicted exceptional traffic. He sipped his scalding tea as he peered out of the tall window in the living room. He witnessed the city wake up as theine tried to do the same to his body with unimpressive results.

He gathered his things, fed Charles, locked his house and got in the car. It was incredibly cold as he jammed his keys in the hole, he then realized the engine wasn't keen on running smoothly. Withnail arrived at school with perfect timing despite the fear of the car's death at every hit of the brakes. He was just a couple of minutes early so he could pour himself another cup of tea to contrast with the freezing cold that bit his hands and nose.  
  
Marwood came in shortly after and they walked to the theatre together, chatting amicably about the weather and how it disrupted the city's already frantic life.

Withnail found it hard to focus on the lesson when all he could think about was his weekend that involved a good book and his miserable stash of pot. Marwood was particularly energetic for some reason, Withnail figured he had warmed up to his new position and was taking quite a liking to it. His lips curved into a private smile as he recalled his first days teaching at the academy and how much stamina he had required for the first three months.

The hours passed quickly with a single break that didn't comprise of a shared cigarette outside the building. Both Withnail and Marwood were suffering too much from the cold to step outside unless it was necessary. They opted for a cup of coffee in the teacher's room.

Withnail was so relieved when the last bell rung. He waited for Marwood as he parted the students, with far too much enthusiasm, simply out of courtesy. Truth be told, he just wanted to get home as soon as possible. As Marwood and he said goodbye to each other in the parking lot, he felt the entire week's tension leaving him, it flushed away from his shoulders to his knees, and finally it was gone. He took a cigarette out of its packet as he opened his car door and sat down, throwing his bag in the passenger's seat. He rummaged through his pockets until he found his car keys, he then inserted and turned them into the hole but the engine made a few coughing sounds and died. He tried two, three more times. Nothing. The engine was frozen, dead and the same fate would soon be Withnail's.

 _“_ _FUCK!"_  he yelled out, pouring every ounce of exasperation and disbelief in that one word.

Oh, how he loathed being himself sometimes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I put those warning tags for drug use and abuse, they weren't referring only to weed. I mean, when Withnail and Marwood were studying at the academy the mod movement was at its peak, and while neither of them were mods (or at least I hope so) the amphetamine market was rather wide. And I feel like I should warn you for the future chapters that for now are yet to be written, but they will contain more elements of drug abuse. Which shouldn't be surprising because the movie mentions a speed and meth, but hey! I'm just warning you guys.  
> Also, my beta was on a grind and we're all caught up with the chapters, as I'm currently writing the 9th.  
> Thank you for not cussing me out in the comments!


	9. Marwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marwood is trying. He really is.

Marwood heard yelling coming from the car across the parking lot. It couldn't have been anyone but Withnail so he turned around; his speculations proven true by the sight of a rather angry looking man passing a hand on his slicked back corvine hair, cussing out his vehicle. Marwood approached him carefully, wondering what had brought on this outburst of rage.

“Is everything alright, Withnail?”

“Like hell it is! This fucking... trash can on wheels just died on me!” Withnail whined.

“Do you want me to have a look at it?” Marwood asked calmly, even if he couldn't remember the last time he had put his hands on an engine.

“You can try, but it's no use when it's like this.” Withnail said dryly. “Don't worry about it, Marwood, I'll call a cab. See you on Monday.”

Before Withnail could take a step towards the phone booth and end the conversation, Marwood blurted out without forethought:

“Nonsense, it will take an eternity for a cab to get here, you'd have to wait outside in the snow. I'll give you a lift, come on.”

Maybe it wasn't a great idea. He could only imagine how awkward the ride would be, but he couldn't leave Withnail there like that. If he was attempting to re-establish something that resembled a friendship then he had to do more than just grab the occasional cup of coffee.

“I don't think that's a good idea. Don't you have rehearsals or something else soon? It will take you at least an hour to drive me home in this traffic. I appreciate the thought, but I really don't want to inconvenience you.” Withnail reasoned, unconvinced.

Now he was just trying to find excuses not to accept the favour that Marwood was offering; and if the past week had taught him anything, it was that stubbornness was the key past Withnail's rigid facade.

“I wouldn't have offered if it had inconvenienced me. Please just get in the car, I'm bloody freezing out here!”

“Well, if you insist...”

“Yes, I fucking insist! You'll have to show me the way, though.”

  
Marwood walked back to his car followed by Withnail's apprehensive pace. In his brief lapse of anger Withnail had forgotten about the cigarette that he was holding in his hands, and stomped on the butt before sitting down in the passenger's seat. Marwood started up the car as he recalled the vague explanation of the residential area where Withnail lived, but he was unsure of how long it would take to get there.

The streets were overflowing with every sort of vehicle while they were closed in their own private, leather covered hell. Withnail hadn't spoken a word since he slammed the door shut, and Marwood was too focused on not getting into an accident. The snow began to blend with the rain which created an even gloomier atmosphere as the water drops dragged away the snowflakes from the filthy asphalt. They were currently stuck in a queue of road-raging businessmen who were waiting to get home and let out their frustration on their wives. The cars around them were blaring their horns at god knew what because the line had not moved an inch in a quarter of an hour.

Marwood slumped back in his seat with a sigh and killed the engine, resigned. He looked around as he tried to find a way to kill the boredom that lingered in the empty space, and hoped for some conversation.

“Seems to me like we're stuck. Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked, pointing at the stereo.

“Wha—oh yeah, sure, suit yourself. It's your car,” Withnail quipped as he snapped out of whatever philosophical reasoning was going on inside his brain.

It took Marwood a couple of seconds to get the right frequency, but he soon settled for a channel that was playing the top charts. The metallic noise of screeching guitars and heavy bass accompanied the nasal voice of the singer. Marwood smiled as he realized he couldn't bring himself to appreciate the music that appealed to the younger generations and that, well, he was getting old.

The music was harsh enough to bring Withnail out of his trance. He scoffed as he switched stations, settling on one that played oldies. The softer melodies and velvet-spoken lyrics filling the car contrasted with all the chaos that was happening outside.

The songs started to fade into one another, and to Marwood it seemed like he had been stuck in that car for hours. The alleged stillness brought by snow that so many poets had sung about almost felt hysterical as he sat and waited for the slightest twitch of the wheels ahead of him, nothing more, nothing to sing about.

“I still can't believe that you're a teacher. I think it's brilliant, actually. But... unexpected.” Marwood said, thinking out loud.

“Unexpected? Do you think I could have spent my entire life chasing auditions? No thank you, Marwood. That was you. And it turned out rather well, didn't it?” Withnail replied, bitterness accompanying his words.

“I guess so.”

  
The conversation died again and they both submerged themselves in their respective thoughts. They had been stuck in the same spot for half an hour now. Marwood could feel his arse becoming numb, and he could have guessed that Withnail craved nicotine from the incessant bouncing of his leg.

He wiped the condensation off his window to see if the external world could entertain him better than the sterile dialogue Withnail was providing. He saw a cop, his round face red with cold and exhaustion, speaking with a driver a couple of cars ahead of them. The conversation terminated with the cop walking away from the car with an apologetic and resigned look. Marwood imagined he wouldn't have been the first one to ask him about the situation they were in, but he so wanted to get out of there. Now that he thought about it, it was the first time Withnail and he had actually been alone together in a decade, and it was getting uncomfortable.

He rolled down the car window which earned him a confused look from the man sitting next to him.

“Excuse me, officer!” he yelled out in order to be heard over the rain, snow, and all the angry honks.

The man turned his head to the car, and approached with an exasperated pace, dragging himself until he was at a decent speaking range.

“Look, sir, there's been an accident, there's nothing I can do about it. It might take another half an hour-” he started, without even looking at his interlocutor, but then he snapped out of his overly rehearsed rambling to actually look at Marwood, blinking a few times in disbelief.

 _God, no_. Marwood thought.

“If you don't mind me asking, are you Peter Marwood?” the cop questioned, rather embarrassed.

Marwood was ready to put on a tight lipped smile and sign the man's notepad, but Withnail interrupted him before he could:

“Yeah, that's him, flesh and bones. I'm his agent. Now, would you be so kind to find us a way out of here? We're already thirty minutes late to a meeting with producers. We really can't keep them waiting any longer.” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Now, that was familiar. The cop seemed to panic for a couple of seconds as he surveyed the area, trying to find a way out of the interminable queue. He gestured to the cars surrounding them to move, but Marwood couldn't hear the dialogue from inside the vehicle. He took advantage of the cop's distraction to look at Withnail with a wry smile and knowing eyes. Withnail responded with an equally smug expression. In a matter of minutes Marwood had enough space to U-turn and take another road, but he had no clue how to reach Withnail's house. He supposed he could ask the cop for more information.

“Withnail, can you pass me a piece of paper and a pen?”

“What for?”

“I figured I could leave that cop my signature since he's been so kind to us.” Withnail scoffed, but handed Marwood what he asked for.

Before driving away from the dreaded queue, he pulled down the car window again, right where the cop was standing and looking at the traffic.

“Thank you so much for your help, officer.” Marwood gave a quick smile as he handed him the piece of paper with his signature. "May I ask if there's another way to get to Kensington?”

“You're welcome, sir. I'm afraid all the main roads are clogged. The fastest way is through secondary streets but it will add twenty minutes to your journey, more or less.”

“I see. Well, thanks again. Goodbye.”Marwood said, closing the car window.

He sank in the seat and exhaled. He still had no clue how to get to Withnail's house and he hoped he would guide him to his domicile. All those hours of teaching and the last thirty minutes of sitting in traffic were starting to take their toll on him.

“Please tell me you know how to reach your house.” Marwood pleaded weakly as he glanced over to the passenger side, where Withnail hunched and turned towards the window.

“I want to be honest with you, I've got no fucking clue.”

“Great!” he said, defeated as he went back to his introspection and driving with no actual aim.

The roads were still rather familiar, and as he felt his stomach churn with hunger an idea appeared in his mind. He would have had his reservations about making it public, but he was knackered.

“Listen, Withnail, I don't know about you but I'm bloody starving. Why don't we get delivery and go to my place? I'll drive you home later tonight when there's no traffic.” He suggested.

Withnail looked at him as if he had grown another head on his shoulder, but after a few seconds of stupor he replied, unsure:

“I... I can't. I've got to get back home.”

“Do you have someone waiting for you?” Inquired Marwood, hoping that the answer would shed some light on Withnail's personal life that had went on despite his absence.

“Well, no. I mean, there's Charles.”

Marwood's mind started to race as it formulated hypotheses on who Charles could be.

“Who's Charles?”

“My cat.”

“Your _cat_? Oh please, Withnail, he'll be fine, you'll be home by ten.” Marwood insisted with a softer tone. “Chippy? Come on, for old time's sake.”

For a second Marwood could have sworn to have seen a shadow of something akin to dejection, pain, or something else that he had no way of figuring out. Withnail had accused him of dwelling in nostalgia, but perhaps it was Withnail who lived by the day and forgot about having a past at all. How was that right? How could he accuse Marwood when he refused to acknowledge their friendship, regardless of how faded it was?

 “Marwood, I-”

 “It's on me.”

“All right then. But I absolutely need to be home by ten.”

“You will be, don't torture yourself. Pass me a fag, will you?”

“I didn't know smoking was allowed inside your new, pristine Jaguar. I would have taken advantage of this rule sooner.”

“It isn't, but I very nearly lost my temper back there. If I don't get some nicotine in my lungs I might combust. And it's not new, by the way, it's last year's model.”

Withnail chuckled and handed him a cigarette and a lighter. Marwood's memories of Withnail putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with his own when he had managed to lose the matchbox flashed before his eyes, grainy and surreal as if on film.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the radio was London Calling! After all it's set two years after the release of Never Mind The Bollocks. They're too old to like punk music, though. Also I'm hungover so I don't know if there are any mistakes in here! But something is advancing. Very slowly. Also I have finals, I apologise for the particularly irregular updates.


	10. Withnail

Withnail wasn't certain what had gotten into him—and Marwood!—but the damage was done. He soon found himself at a dignified takeaway place in the city, waiting in line to order two portions of fish and chips. Of course Marwood categorically refused to leave the shaded spot he had found to park the car, so he had been left with the duty of purchasing their dinner with Marwood's money. Sure, he had a paycheck now, but there was still a part of him that connected the words "it's on me" with a better tasting meal and drink. His mind had been racing with all sort of thoughts about being at Marwood's house in a matter of minutes. He was quite sure he didn't want to go there just to silently eat fried food that was going to torment his incipient ulcer.

After telling the cashier to keep the change he left the shop, pulling the lapel of his coat and walking out into the snow, feeling rather odd. Never mind that it wasn't how he had planned things to go, had Withnail really been that lonely to be unable to refuse Marwood's attempts at friendship? Why couldn't Withnail let him go?

He got in the car, hissing at the biting weather that had accompanied them for all of their unexpected journey.

“How far is your house?” Asked Withnail, placing the paper bag on the floor between his legs. It was pleasantly steaming.

“Barely five minutes away. You can put the change there.”

“I told the girl at the counter to keep it.”

Marwood said nothing, but nodded and turned the engine on. After a couple of silent minutes he parked in a perfectly white and tidy driveway. Withnail waited for Marwood as he picked up a few things scattered in the car and followed him to the apartment complex. Withnail looked around and quietly caught his breath as they stood in the hallway, Marwood fumbled with the keys and finally got around to letting the both of them in. The warm light and welcoming atmosphere were no help for the uneasiness settling in his gut. He gave a quick, weary glance around the place before following Marwood to the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I'm not eating this here.” Marwood said, folding his coat with Withnail's resting on a chair and taking out the contents of the bag.

“Can you put these on the coffee table, please?” He said, handing the two hot containers to Withnail. “I'll get some napkins and a beer.” he gestured to the white leather couch sitting across the ample open space.

Withnail headed over and sat down, crossing his legs in a position he hoped gave the impression of confidence he didn't have.

Marwood soon joined him from the kitchen, resting two opened bottles of ale on the immaculate surface of the coffee table with a clunk. Withnail watched him as he leaned back into the armchair, crossing his legs and putting the plastic container on his lap. Withnail eyed his dinner, suddenly feeling a lack of appetite. God, what now? Small talk? He wanted to throw himself out of the window.

“You've got a nice place.” started Withnail, hoping for a little less stiffness between them.

“Mh. Thank you. It feels a bit impersonal to me, actually.” Replied Marwood, still chewing a chip. “I'm not often at home.”

“Yeah, I suspected as much.”

“You named your cat after Baudelaire. I can't believe you're willingly taking care of another living being.”

“Oh, the little bastard just stuck around. I fed him once and he never left my house. He's a bloody freeloader!”

Marwood chuckled and took a swig from his bottle. Withnail mirrored his movements, looking at the barely noticeable wrinkles at the corners of Marwood's eyes and mouth. They fit him well, made him look more reliable and solemn. His glasses were new, more fashionable, and his hair was longer than it was on that day at Regent's Park, but shorter than how he used to keep it. It was still a rich burnt golden with no traces of silver or white, unlike Withnail's temples whose colour had started to fade years prior. His past self would have envied Marwood, and perhaps it was a matter of the years he wasn't able to remember without grief, but he no longer cared. How disparate they used to be, and how apart they were in that precise moment, two worlds separated by a coffee table and solely connected by Marwood's incessant yet pleasant conversation.

Withnail noticed a sort of uneasiness in Marwood's behaviour, from the improper manners to his constant need to alleviate the tension in the room. The first one, Withnail presumed, was necessary to unplug from a world of formalities that Marwood should have been familiar with. The second one, Withnail didn't particularly mind, but that too was probably a part of his job he couldn't detach from. It didn’t bother him as he wasn't adept at making conversation anyway.

  
They finished dinner and Withnail helped Marwood bring all the empty bottles and containers to the kitchen. As Marwood excused himself to the bathroom, he started pacing the apartment, looking at the limited objects and minimalist furniture. The few prizes Marwood had won during the years were displayed on a shelf that was half-hidden in the library. Way more interested in how Marwood's literary taste had changed during the years, he found himself attentively studying his book collection. The library's slots were bending under the weight of luxurious hardcover art books: Escher, Schiele, Moreau, Courbet. Then, in another slot, screenplays of the films and TV productions he had starred in. Next to it were the sections dedicated to theatre plays, ordered by author; a lot of them were Shakespeare, always faithful to the bard, he observed. Then there was Marlowe, Jerrold, Byron, Wilde, Beckett, his old copy of Sheriff's _A Journey's End_ , significantly more battered than Withnail remembered. Below were Marwood's foreign plays, Withnail noticed the almost complete collection of Pirandello's plays, along with Goldoni and a few lonely García Lorca and Brecht. Another author Marwood seemed to have a predilection for was Henrik Ibsen, as he had spotted a copy of _Dollhouse_ on the coffee table earlier. Marwood had told him about the show happening in February with him in the role of Torvald. Withnail hoped Marwood's pursuits at restoring their friendship didn't earn him a ticket to a show he was desperate not to attend. Not because he doubted Marwood's ability to convey Torvald's essence, but simply because sitting alone in a theatre watching the entire audience in awe of Marwood would have been uncomfortable, surreal, and definitely not his idea of fun.

The rest of the library that covered most of the southern wall was filled with a vast assortment of various prose and poetry, occasionally interrupted by arbitrary ornaments and picture frames. Withnail recognized the fondness for symbolist and decadent authors they had shared in their youth, wondering if it had faded in himself during the years. It was undeniable that he had shifted his interest to more academically appreciated works, but there were exceptions, of course. His mouth went dry as he recognized the copy of _Against Nature_ was the one Withnail had given him for the second birthday Marwood had spent with him. He still remembered the day he walked into the bookshop just to find shelter from the rain, and noticed a paperback of the book that had been his companion during the vacations in the country with his family. It didn't take long after the the thought of _'steal it'_ that he was walking out into the rain again with a bulge on his left side. Then he had repurposed it, not without annoyance, as a gift for Marwood for lack of finances and memory. The book had been wrapped in an oily newspaper sheet and tied together with sewing thread just ten minutes before he had given it to Marwood

Looking attentively at the contents of the picture frames, Withnail noticed two photographs of a woman not older than thirty, with long, voluminous auburn hair and grey eyes. She was smiling, and in one of them she had an arm around Marwood. Withnail knew she wasn't his wife: he was aware of Marwood's divorce, it had been impossible not to hear about it when it happened. Despite avoiding any kind of gossip magazine, he still saw the stolen pictures of Marwood and his recently ex-wife exiting the court on display on a magazines rack in the shop near his house. At the time, Withnail felt like his brain was going to short-circuit on him, and the spotty teenaged cashier with a perpetually dull face (any resemblance to an expression was actually the muscles of his mouth moving to blow a bubble gum) would have been the one to escort him out of the market. It didn't happen, thank God, but Withnail came home with an urgent need for a glass of gin. It was as if life was there to remind him that his fate was to be stuck in that futile dimension until the day of his premature death.  
  
Withnail heard Marwood opening the bathroom door and ceased his mind's wandering. They smiled at each other nervously, Marwood approached him as he redirected his gaze towards the array of books that lined the room

“Have you read all of these?” Withnail asked, with great effort to carry on the conversation.

“The majority, yeah. I keep the ones I've yet to read on the left.” Marwood replied, unnecessarily cheerful. “Do you recognize anything?”

“Your Sherriff and my Huysmans.” Withnail responded, as indifferent as possible.

“You gave it to me.”

 “I did,” Withnail confirmed, with a hint of bitterness. All for the book, of course. “Who's the girl?”

Marwood looked at Withnail with a perplexed expression. Then he looked over to the pictures on the shelf and sighed with embarrassment.

“That's... That's Dottie. Fuck, sorry, I should have taken them down a month ago, but I never got around to it.” said Marwood, inexplicably amused. “She used to be my make-up artist. She left me last month, Withnail.”

Withnail felt paralysed, as if he were unworthy of being trusted with such information. What did Marwood want, a confidant? A shoulder to cry on? They were basically strangers, why did Marwood reveal this to him? What did he expect as an answer? _"I'm sorry"_ ? What was Withnail supposed to be sorry about? He didn't care! He never asked to be part of Marwood's life again, he tried to distance himself from it, but nothing. Nothing! Marwood was stubborn and blind: couldn't he see Withnail shying away from their interaction? Why did he enjoy seeing Withnail uncomfortable and stiff whenever he spoke?

“I'm sorry.” Withnail said, not having found a better comment.

“Ah, don't be. We're on good terms.” said Marwood as he took the two picture frames in his hands and took out the pictures

“I bet you had the press all over you anyway. God, that must be a pain.” he observed.

“Dottie's not rich, they don't care about her. It was worse with the divorce, I'd imagine you've seen it. Christ, who hasn't.” Marwood said, with a barely veiled anger Withnail was sure to hear.

“Do you mind if I go for a smoke?” asked Withnail, eager to interrupt the conversation, or at least switch topics.

“Oh, no, go ahead. I'll join you,” replied Marwood, gesturing for the french window that headed to the terrace.

The wind was stronger and colder than Withnail remembered, and made lighting the matchsticks from Marwood's kitchen a true hardship. Marwood poured himself a glass of sherry before walking onto the terrace where he leaned his back against the banister next to Withnail. The city seemed so far away, just a blur of lights, nothing more than a vast fabric background above them. The temperature was unbearable, Withnail's hand were shaking and more frostbitten than he had previously thought.

 “Do you have a girlfriend, Withnail?” asked Marwood, with an all too sincere smile.

 Withnail almost choked on the smoke from his cigarette, and if he didn't catch himself on time he would have spent the following minute in an ugly coughing fit. He swallowed.

 “No. I... I used to. I left her. We didn't want the same thing from our relationship.” Withnail lied shamelessly, backed into a corner of his own making. Oh, whatever this was, it was taking an unpleasant turn.

 “Still no strings attached, huh?” said Marwood, smiling into his glass.

 Withnail just laughed, not denying or confirming something that needed neither, as it was a blatant lie.

 “Christ, a lot happened in these ten years. Where have you been, Withnail?”

  _Fuck, not again_ , he begged silently.

 “I told you, I hardly left London.” Withnail stated. “Marwood, please. I'd rather avoid the matter.”

 He really hoped Marwood could hear the plea in his voice. There was a limit to the layers of shame he could bring upon himself with each lie that hid his past. He wanted to forget and let go, not conceal and build a part of himself that never existed. He could have lied again, but he was so tired of lying to Marwood, who at the same time had no right to know the worst part of him: he had seen enough.

 “I've got to go now.” Withnail said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so now I've got to explain how the choice of authors and artists in this chapter is extremely not casual because I am like that. First of all: Against Nature by Huysmans. Not only Bruce Robinson explicitly stated that it's one of his favorite books (and if I'm not wrong he was introduced to it by Vivian MacKerrell) but it's also featured in the movie, it's one of the books Marwood packs in his suitcase before leaving for Manchester. Plus, because of its heavy homoerotic subtext, it's also the "poisonous french novel" that Lord Henry Wotton gifts to Dorian. As for the artists: Escher is again one of Robinson's personal favorites (and also really popular with the Beat Generation), Schiele is my personal favorite, also because his knobbly figures remind me of Withnail. Moreau is mentioned in a chapter of Against Nature. Courbet is a personal french romantic favorite. Shakespeare and Marlowe are self explanatory, Jerrold is there because I didn't know enough romantic playwrights. Wilde, Byron, García Lorca: all gay. So was Sherriff, but also Marwood is shown in the movie while reading A Journey's end in Penrith. Pirandello and Goldoni are there simply because of patriotic reasons (but let's be honest, Pirandello was a visionary.) . Beckett, Hibsen and Brecht are personal favorites. 
> 
> After this pretentious footnote that frames me as /that/ art school student, I announce that I'll be done with my final exams in exactly a week, so I'll be able to devote myself to this project. Also, the editing is never over, I reread this work constantly and I always manage to notice new mistakes. So if you spot something please do tell! I promise i won't bite.


	11. Withnail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back bitches and I'm abusing even more substances now

“Withnail, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”

“Pay it no mind. I really ought to get going, though. It's late.” Withnail lied again, but only partially.

“If you say so... Let me get my keys then and I'll drive you home.”

“No, Marwood. You drank. I'll call a cab.”

“It was just an ale.”

“And the sherry.”

Marwood sighed. “The phone is in the kitchen.”

Withnail knew Marwood didn't deserve such unexplained cruelty from him, despite the worst part of himself telling him that he had, in fact, earned Withnail's hostility. But that was just his need for someone to blame.

He smiled at Marwood, who looked at him, confused. It was the best apology he could muster.

The ten minutes in which Withnail waited for the cab to arrive were agonizing. Neither of them spoke a word. Marwood excused himself from the terrace and Withnail lit up another cigarette. As soon as he heard a car approaching the driveway he got back in, picked his belongings up and put on his coat. Marwood was still an exemplary host and walked with him down the stairs. He didn't seem too eager to venture further from the building's hall, which was more than understandable.

“I... Thank you for your company, Withnail. It was a nice evening.” said Marwood, nervously, as one last apology for his curiosity.

If he had just asked, Withnail would have told him that he was the one being unfair, but he could never be that earnest.

“Thank you for the dinner, Marwood. Goodnight.”

“See you on Monday. Goodnight.”

As soon as he climbed into the cab he felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had been so foolish, so easily tempted by Marwood's kindness, to temporarily forget why he had found so much comfort in a boring routine. He sighed, and looked out of the window, up to where Marwood's apartment was. He saw Marwood’s silhouette moving behind the curtains.

“Where to?” The cab driver asked.

“Kensington.” Withnail replied, dry.

“Say, doesn't that actor, huh, Peter Marwood, live here?” The driver asked, turning to look at Withnail with a smirk.

“I don't know who the fuck you’re talking about.” he muttered flatly, his eyes stubbornly glued on the view outside.

Unavoidably, Marwood occupied his thoughts during the entire journey back home. Flashes of his house were burnt on Withnail's mind, like his prizes, so carefully half-hidden, his spotless kitchen, his fridge, empty except for alcoholic beverages and milk. The framed pictures of his ex-girlfriend, weirdly left untouched even after their breakup. It could have been someone's vacation home with how empty it was. Only the library had betrayed a glimpse of the Marwood he used to know, but the maniacal and irritating pristineness of it all betrayed another character, a different man. Just how much did Marwood's career take from him? Did he think it was worth it? Withnail had some doubts about Marwood's internal well-being. If it existed, it seemed dangerously fragile.

Withnail was so submerged in his thoughts that he hardly noticed when the driver slowed down and pulled up right in front of his house. Withnail handed him a bill and got out of the cab without saying a word, dragging his feet to the entrance, ready to hear Charles' starved cries.

“All right, calm down, I kn- _fuck_!” Withnail swore as he almost fell face flat on the floor.

“Enough of this, you little demon! You're going to kill me one day!” He exclaimed, as if the cat could understand. The poor beast was just hungry, Withnail knew.

He fed Charles immediately, then took off his coat and rested his bag on the couch.

It was hardly eleven p.m., yet Withnail felt so dreadfully tired he just accepted the idea that the night's plans would terminate there, perhaps with reading a couple of chapters of a book of his own choice under the covers. He spent almost ten minutes trying to find a book that appealed to his emotional state. It was harder than it seemed. Once chosen, Withnail changed into his nightclothes and retrieved his reading glasses, but the words from the book refused to reach his mind, which was stubbornly fixed on Marwood. The leverage that man had on Withnail was simply unbelievable. What he had meant to him, what he had faded into, could not longer be blurred together. For however much pain it caused him to admit it, Withnail couldn't deny that what he had felt during the six years they spent together was, in fact, love. A sick kind, a delusion at best, but so vital to Withnail back then. He had lived with a twisted fear that Marwood would find out about the nature of his feelings, or worse, that he would have acted upon them, following his instincts once his rationality had been wholly and irredeemably compromised by psychotropic substances. It didn't happen, but Withnail spent more than a lustrum wishing that Marwood could ever find out and reciprocate his feelings. God, he had loved him so viciously, so morbidly, the only way he knew how to love, but if he only could have had one chance, the briefest moment the universe could concede him, he would have made it right, or so he thought.

Withnail had never had any experience with the kind of affection that had struck him from that moment, when he had forgotten his identification and that nervous, awkward boy he thought he recognized from the Academy vouched for him just because he had seen him around. Apparently his name was more known that he believed.

Inevitably, his thoughts then drifted to his family, to their reactions upon hearing the news he was moving to London to attend the Royal Academy Of Dramatic Arts. He remembered the sick pride that had bloomed in his chest at the sight of his father's face reddening, the stern mask he had worn throughout his entire childhood crumbling. He had heard him arguing with his mother, a frail, lanky woman with delicate nerves and Withnail's same corvine hair and long face, behind monumental doors still too thin to conceal his father's yelling. He had taken it out on her first, and Withnail, not as insensitive as he would grow to be, had felt a pang of guilt when his father blamed his mother for having sheltered poor little Vivian too much, turning him into a sissy, spineless young man, ready to follow his uncle's devious path. He felt guilty because his not so dear anymore mother had a million faults, but not the one of raising a homosexual. His teenage self felt so satisfied knowing that he was the only one responsible for his moral depravity that so sweetly scandalized his household. Little Viv, grown under his mother's apprehensive wings and his father's scorn, indifferent to his brothers' teasings and unreceptive to his mother's pretences on him, her piano lessons, French lessons, and dancing practices. He was always far too interested in the part of the library than contained the books that his father deemed useless and mundane to second his mother's needs for the daughter or doll that God never gifted her with. Upon seeing his weakly frame in his mother's tired arms, his father had allowed his mother to take care of him, already satisfied with his older brother Cyril's propensity to particularly masculine activities. It wasn’t like his mother hadn't tried having a little girl, but the year after Vivian was born, his mother was pregnant again with another baby boy that, unlike him, would have been welcomed in the family tree, with his blond hair and all the common inclinations little boys should have.

There were no tearful goodbyes and proud pats on the back when he managed to fit all his necessary possessions in two suitcases and left one September morning. The wind was cold but the sun still burnt his face, and he knew he couldn't hope for anything more than a mere shelter, a life of chosen adversity instead of the suffered conformism his good name could have provided him. But it was fine, he was fine, it was his. He was going to live no matter what, he would show his family that poor little Viv was more resilient than he looked. But make them proud? Never. The most subversive thing he could have done, he did: he survived, wallowing in the laziness and self-indulgence his father had punished him for, bathing in his own painful mediocrity and forgetting each useless thing he had learned just to laugh, metaphorically, in his mother's face. Even willingly wearing thighs, once again done to scorn his brothers' obtuse masculinity.

Then Peter Marwood came along that damned spring and it suddenly wasn't out of spite anymore. It was part of his character and Marwood was both scared and fascinated, he could tell that much. It was almost like he was begging to be corrupted. And it was surprisingly easy, the bohémien lifestyle was a too great attraction for them both to be able to resist its pull. They changed so drastically together, becoming each other's parasite with the passing of time. He should have seen that September morning come.

Withnail caught himself before another flashback got the best of him. He shut the book he had been holding at the same page for a quarter of an hour, irritated. He took off his reading glasses and swallowed his sleeping pills with some water. The past was the past. He wasn't in love with Marwood anymore.  The man was apparently as jaded as he was, no youthful vitality to him, no inexperience, nothing left to corrupt, Withnail thought with a chuckle. All right, he admitted that Marwood had handled his fame rather well. Not that he prided any influence on him, not in that sense, but Withnail often wondered what would have become of Marwood if they had never met. Probably he would have become famous even sooner. Perhaps he would have mastered other activities in the field of theatrical entertainment. Or maybe he would have been a published author, along with successful actor. That sounded so boring, Withnail said to himself.

So what now, were they friends again? Did Marwood expect Withnail to make an effort too? Had he given up after Withnail's umpteenth caustic refusal to answer his questions? Bloody hell, what if he hadn't? The man could be incredibly stubborn and Withnail had experienced his obstinacy before. What could he have done except for going along with it? He hadn't answered his questions because he was confident in Marwood forgetting his existence once again at the end of the upcoming week. No reason to re-establish a friendship that had caused him so much suffering, for what? Not even a couple of weeks? This was self-preservation, Withnail was certain. And loneliness is a poor judge of character. God only knew if his heart couldn't have started working again if Marwood had just taken one of his proverbial looks at it. That son of a town mechanic had gotten him good in the past, he couldn't let it happen again. Not that he actually believed it was possible, but it was better to prevent than to cure. He could never be too careful.

And with that thought, Withnail's eyes closed and his head heavily sank down into the pillow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jokes aside, I do apologize for being MIA for months but finishing high school was a stronger blow on my self esteem that I could have ever imagined. Also I'm moving to London apparently, so that's an entire new level of fucked I'm not ready for. But this goddamn Odyssey is still going on! I hope you enjoy yet another chapter of nothing happening, but at least you get a fraction of Withnail's backstory, and I'll admit it, I slipped in there a quite big revelation that isn't actually one, or else no one would be reading this. This chapter was betaed by wallofglass, whom I would have the pleasure to tag if I only knew how. Enjoy!


	12. Marwood

When the alarm rang on Monday morning Marwood was already awake in his bed. He had woken up one hour too early and tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep - knowledge that the alarm would be ringing soon was enough to keep him on edge. He rubbed his eyes and got up, grabbing his robe from the chair. His feet were moving on their own, following his craving for a cup of coffee. He wasn't sure he would be able to stomach anything else. The way he had parted with Withnail the other night still gnawed at his belly with guilt. Thinking that Withnail was initially acting on a particularly melodramatic whim, he had believed the time was ready to step into the topic that was Withnail's life from 1969 to present day, but he proved himself so utterly and indelicately wrong. He wished Withnail had at least got angry at him, wished he could get some different reaction from him, any emotion that wasn't just a filtered version of whatever he was holding back. It didn't happen, though, and Marwood knew Withnail was going to ignore the matter in a particularly unpleasant way. That was the reason why Marwood was already dreading the day ahead of him, mentally determining that a weekend's worth of thought-gathering and physical distance were not nearly close to enough to deal with Withnail. Then he wondered if the right mental and physical conditions to be able to handle Withnail ever existed. He found no answer.

A couple of hours later he found himself quite frozen at Withnail's suspiciously relaxed attitude when he greeted Marwood at his car. It was certainly for the best, but nevertheless, how could he not be on edge? He felt like even the most insignificant wrong word would reset Withnail to the previous Monday's unbearable mood. Marwood was walking on eggshells. Emotionally constipated eggshells.

Thankfully, at some point in the past week he had found himself able to ignore Withnail's presence while lecturing the kids. Withnail's newfound docility made Marwood let his guard down, whilst still being prepared for a drastic change of behaviour at any time.

The cup of coffee that Withnail fetched him after the first three hours of shootings suggested that his friend's behaviour wasn't going to change its pleasant course for the time being.

  
The introduction to the second week forecast a heavy schedule for the following days, with reduced smoke breaks and cups of coffee or tea being drunk standing around the theatre. This reminded Marwood of the strictly professional boundary Withnail was so determined on maintaining, yet so clearly overstepped the past Friday night. Perhaps it was a breach, something Marwood could use to rebuild a more genuine friendship.

However, Marwood's motives weren't as noble as he pretended, and it kind of hurt him to realise how low he could be, to get closer to Withnail simply because of his fear of the future. A divorce, a recent break-up, dreadfully boring galas and blinding lights and infinite commutes, an empty house, the producers' coke-blown eyes, a career with every role more emptying. This was what he was going to meet on his future path. Certainties, yes, but of what awful kind? And then the memory of having little to no certainties on pretty much anything in the period of time in which he shared an apartment with Withnail hit him. He remembered the only two truths he was able to find, first formulated on the train to Manchester: "Withnail will be waiting for me", and "One more day with him and I would have died".

And he had been right. Withnail had been waiting for him, even though he wasn't expecting such a frigid welcome. About his death in relation to his permanency in Camden, well, that went without saying.

There was something ironic in using a man that wouldn't mind a couple of emotional patches as patch for your own pain, Marwood thought. The irony couldn't have stopped him from doing it, though.

  
As usual, Mondays have the longest hours, and the new working schedule had taken a toll on both the students and the teachers. Wrapped up the last scene, everyone was extremely eager to leave and go pass out on their respective sofas. Marwood approached Withnail as the first students left the room. Marwood took a couple of second in which Withnail's hand movements seemed to hypnotize him as he shuffled a stack of papers.

“What is it, Marwood?” Withnail asked, looking above his reading glasses, anticipating Marwood's words.

“Do you want to go out for drinks?”

“Right now? On Monday?”

“I can't see why not. It has never stopped you before.”

“Will I be subjected to your inquiries once again? In that case I'm afraid I'll have to refuse.” Said Withnail, with a strong passive-aggressive note in his voice. Marwood realized that maybe the teaching profession suited Withnail more than he had thought. Acting like this, all day, with every member of the school? It sounded like his ideal profession, he was a natural.

Marwood sighed. “No, Withnail. I already told you I'm sorry about that. Twice, if I'm not wrong. Anyway, I don't understand why I'm the one who keeps apologising for overstepping the boundaries that you set but failed to communicate to me. How was I supposed to know?”

Withnail just looked at him, saying nothing. Marwood held his gaze, unflinchingly.

“Look, do you want to go for a drink or not? Let's just drop this, shall we?” Marwood broke first. “Now I really do need a pint.”

“That's sense. Let's go. Your treat?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

  
If the odd looks from the few remaining students bothered Withnail, he showed no sign of it. Marwood certainly couldn't feel sorry for showing a little humanity. Sometimes celebrated actors went out for drinks with their long lost friends on Monday evenings. Nothing so odd about that. Withnail and he walked the hallways side by side, too deep in a conversation about whether Shakespeare's works could work on film to notice the wide-eyed teaching staff struck by the sight of Vivian Withnail engaging in a peaceful debate. The concept of peculiarity at the RADA was quite far from the common man's.

The debate went on even when the men ordered two ciders (ice in Marwood's) and retired to the nearby pub's most isolated booth. Marwood was particularly amused by Withnail's fervent defence of the purity of the Bard's representations, affirming that just because the technology was advanced enough, it didn't mean that a cinematic transposition was the right thing to do. He leaned back into the worn leather seat and hid his smile in a sip.

“I really don't understand why you're so adamant about this. Think about it, bringing certain plays on screen would mean broadening their audience, make them more accessible,” said Marwood, eager to keep the debate open.

“More accessible to trivialization, you mean. You can't seriously think that one could deliver certain monologues in front of a metal box and make them just as poignant.” replied Withnail with disdain, kicking back half a pint nonchalantly and gesturing for the waitress.

“What isn't subjected to media prostitution nowadays? I'm sure you already figured this out, all the nothing-is-sacred bollocks. This is just awfully elitist of you, my dear Withnail.” Marwood retorted, but still with a smile.

Withnail made an excessively scandalized face that suited him like a glove.

“Awfully elitist? How dare you - I'll have a whisky, please. The best you have-” he waved the waitress away, “good to know that wanting to preserve tradition is now considered elitist.” he concluded with a drag on his cigarette.

“First of all, you're a leech. You're lucky I've got more money that I could ever spend. And secondly; of course preserving tradition is code for elitism, it has always been! Not everyone can afford a theatre ticket nowadays. You know better than me that we owe thousands of excellent actors to cinema.”

“I am _not_ dismissing the cultural impact of cinema, Marwood. Now you're just twisting my words.” Withnail assessed. He drained the whisky too. “This debate is more sterile than I am. I'm going for a slash.”

Withnail grimaced as he got up from the seat, sustaining himself on the stained and chipped table.

Marwood was left alone to his thoughts for a few minutes, in which he preferred not to elaborate a comeback to Withnail's words. Instead he just stared at the few inches of amber liquid pooling in the bottom of his glass. He could have easily blamed the alcohol, if he hadn't been aware that his tolerance was higher than that, for the pleasant, comfortable feeling that was actually coming from the relief that Withnail either had an incredibly short memory (plausible, seeing how easily he had downed his drinks) or really didn't mind about his nosiness that had made him so uncomfortable few days prior. Not that Marwood hadn't had the opportunity to establish that throughout the day, but his anxiety had been constant and this was the final proof he had needed to finally suffocate it for good, at least until his next faux pas, which was sure to come. He was certain of it. But he could relax for the time being.

Withnail came back from the restroom and lit up another cigarette before sitting down ungracefully at his place. He looked at Marwood behind the curtain of thick smoke he had let out slowly from his mouth. Marwood suddenly realized he didn't know what to say, so he awkwardly shifted his attention to his drink.

 “What time is it?” Marwood asked.

 Withnail glanced at the clock on the opposite wall.

 “A few minutes past seven. Are you in a rush?”

 “Shit shit shit- yeah I'm in a bloody rush! Fuck, Colleen will finally off me this time, I'm certain.” Marwood muttered as he tried to escape the booth, look for his wallet, and finish his cider at the same time, half of it spilling on his shirt's collar.

 “- _Fuck_! I really am sorry but I have to go. Here,” he handed Withnail ten quid and smoothed his clothes for a few seconds, “I promise I'll make it up to you! See you tomorrow, Withnail.”

 “Uh, yeah...” Withnail said dumbly, and Marwood was out of the pub before he could say another word. He shrugged the unsaid half-arsed goodbye off his mind and left the note under an empty glass. As he was heading for the exit, his gaze met with a barmaid with thick, curly hair, whose eyes were wide open and were following Withnail's movement as if she was looking for some kind of clue. She had been cleaning the same glass since Marwood had stormed out. Withnail glared at her, killing off whatever question she was holding on the tip of her tongue. Withnail got out of the pub thinking that maybe he had drunk too much to drive, but then he was feeling lucid enough, so it didn't matter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a fucking grind you guys so you won't have to wait much for chapter 13 hopefully, because it's already written. The news is that bastard twitter suspended my twitter account because I threatened my friend to kill him if he didn't watch Hard Core Logo and twitter thought I was serious. So I've switched to tumblr as my main source of social media interaction, if you're active on there hit me up! Beta by @wallofglass :)


	13. Withnail

Turns out that Marwood's concept of making it up to Withnail was to invite him for drinks on Wednesday evening, after class. Withnail was too humanly flawed to refuse a paid drink, and too much in a decent mood to overthink his answer, so before even being able to dwell on Marwood's stubbornness (thing he much enjoyed to dwell on, if he had to be fair) he found himself with a pint in his hand and whisky in the other. Later that same night, pleasantly buzzed and his thoughts clean with the kind of spontaneity that only alcohol could allow him, Withnail wondered for how much longer Marwood would have been willing to make him part of his busy schedule, and how quickly he would have forgotten Withnail after Friday, when the bell at the academy would have chimed the end of the lessons for the week. A sound usually welcome to Withnail's ears, but not in this case.

Wanting to preserve the dull clarity provided by the previous drinks, Withnail fixed himself a gin & tonic and a few hours later he fell asleep on the couch to the sound of a spaghetti western and his right hand trapped under Charles' weight.

In the morning Withnail was woken up by the phone ringing in the hallway. Too early to be anyone trying to sell him something, so it had to be someone familiar. He limped still half asleep, damning whoever was at the other end of the phone even before knowing who it was. Withnail didn't know anyone who didn't deserve to be damned anyway.

“Hello?” He croaked.

“Hello, Viv. How are you?”

Withnail didn't even distance his mouth from the phone when emitting his most exasperated sigh of the week so far.

“Edmund. Why are you calling me at this hour. What do you want.” He said, not really asking, slumping on the wall and scratching his eyes sticky with sleep. Charles was at his feet, rubbing incessantly.

“What, do I need to file a formal request to be able to call my brother?” Edmund laughed, but there was no amusement in his voice.

“That would be great, actually. Do that next time, would you?”

“Sure. How _are_ you, Vivian.”

“I'm fine, Edmund, God! What do you expect me to say?”

“I don't know, maybe you should mention the Peter Marwood thing if you don't know what to talk to me about.”

“What _Peter Marwood thing_ , there's not _Peter Marwood thing_. He's just working at my school, that's all.” Withnail dismissed.

“Don't shrink it, Viv, we both know how well I know you.”

“Not well enough to understand that I won't be talking to you, no matter how much you harass me about it.”

Now it was Edmund's turn to sigh. “I don't know why I bother-”

“Me neither.”

“-listen, I get it. I'll drop it. Believe it or not, harassing you wasn't the only reason why I called you. It's Lizzie's birthday this Sunday and I know you won't be coming because of Mum and Dad-”

“And Cyril.”

“And Cyril, yes. Well, Nancy said you could come for dinner on Monday or Tuesday, whichever suits you best. And the kids wants to see you, Vivian. Please.”

“I find hard to believe my nephews can even recall my name, I must have seen them no more than four times in thirteen years.”

“Nevertheless, Lizzie adores you, and you know. She asked me if Uncle Vivian was coming this Sunday.”

Withnail found himself smiling, glad to be able to hide his expression from his brother. “I'll see, but I can't promise you anything. I'll tell you in a couple of days.”

“Thank you. But please _do_ call, ok?”

“I will. Bye, Edmund, I have to get ready for work.”

“Viv, wait-”

“What is it?”

“If you do come, could you get his autograph for Nancy? You know how she is... Also you owe her, because for some reason she doesn't despise you.”

“That's- I do not _owe_ her because she doesn't want me to rot in hell, what the fuck are you talking about?” Withnail said, even if he had nothing against his brother's wife and understood were Edmund's words were coming from.

“Please?”

“I'll see what I can do about it, but this sounds already too embarrassing. Don't expect anything.”

“Thank you. Bye, Vivian. Call me if there's anything wrong, alright?”

“There's nothing wrong, Ed.”

“I know. I said _if_.”

“There won't be, either.”

“ _If._ Bye.”

“Bye.” Withnail exhaled, and hung up.

Damn his little brother and his pity, he didn't want it. He was better off without it, so he could have said to loathe his entire family without having to make an exception for Edmund, who had changed drastically after his marriage. But he was his only family left, so he was willing to make an effort just to be sure there would have been someone to pick the right wood for his coffin.  
The phone call deprived him of a few precious minutes he would have gladly used to get ready for work more calmly, so for the day he skipped breakfast and rushed to the academy.

 

Upon crossing the threshold of his workplace, he was assailed by Ms. Hughes, the improvisation coach, who slipped her silk-clad arm underneath his and dragged him from the opposite way from a head full of blond curls Withnail recognized and was subconsciously pulled towards. When they were out of sight, she stopped and Withnail promptly disentangled himself as if the woman's grip was scalding.

“What the hell, Hughes?”

“Oh, don't be a baby, Vivian. I need to ask you a favour.” She scoffed, not looking any more pleased than he was in having had such close contact.

“Couldn't you simply ask me in the hallway? What's all this going off in private business? People will think we're involved.” Withnail said, repressing an hysterical tone.

Ms. Hughes sized him up with a raised eyebrow. “You really don't need to worry about that. Anyway, are you going to ask Peter Marwood to come have drink with us when class is over or do I have to ask Greg to do that?”

“God, anyone but him. I'll do it, but you owe me one.”

“I love how you pretend this is a chore for you, as if you two haven't become inseparable in these two weeks.” She grinned.

“Marwood and I are very much separable. I didn't think he would have recognized me, actually.”

“Sure thing. Well, time to head to class. Ask him promptly, will you? In case he makes other plans.”

“Alright. See you tonight.”

“And, Vivian?”

“What?”

“Stop traumatizing my students.” She said with a smile, and clicked her heels in the opposite direction.

“They're my students too, I'll traumatize them all I want!” He yelled at her back, sure she heard him even if she didn't make any sign to confirm it.

He sighed and headed to class. Withnail didn't feel any rush to tell Marwood about the evening plans, and not wanting to deprive the students of their beloved coach on his last day, he waited for the first break.

 When the students scattered, he approached Marwood and guided him out of hearing range.

“My colleagues were wondering if you'd like to join us for a parting drink after class.” Withnail offered, nonchalantly.

“What about you?”

“Well, I'll be there too.”

“Of course, but do you want me to come or are you just asking on their behalf?” Marwood asked, hiding a bitter smile. Withnail was kind of taken aback by the question. What now, lie shamelessly about his lack of emotional involvement or make a stuttering fool out of himself?

“I, uh... Guess I wouldn't mind if you came? After all we've been getting drinks any other day this week.” The second one, then.

“Your colleagues are going to be here this time, do you believe they're going to be as frivolous as you pictured them to be or am I the only one to whom your life is taboo?”

“Don't flatter yourself, you're not getting any special treatment from me. But to answer your question, yes, they _are_ going to be annoying. All over you.”

“I'm scared to know what the special treatment is, if this is how you treat people regularly. To answer your question, your opinions about the rest of the teaching staff aren't enough to discourage me from getting a deserved fucking ale after class, so tell them I wouldn't refuse their kind offer for all the gold in the world. But promise you'll bolt out with me if it gets too much.” Marwood said, looking sternly at Withnail.

“Define 'too much'.” Withnail inquired.

“Oh, you'll be able to tell.”

Withnail looked at Marwood, perplexed, but said nothing. The other man headed toward the stage and Withnail decided to go grab a cup of coffee in the break room, see if someone had brought something to eat and announce to whoever was in the room that Marwood's presence for the evening was confirmed, confident that the rumour would have spread fast enough that no one would have been surprised to see Marwood at the pub.  
Once back in the theatre, Withnail sat at his desk, scribbling some notes absentmindedly and realizing that he would have accepted Edmund's invitation at his place, purely out of moral duty. He wondered what an appropriate gift for a nine years old girl could be. He wrote "call Ed" on the following day's page of his agenda and underlined it twice, just to get the message through to his future self.

The following hours passed too slowly for Withnail's liking, but thankfully Marwood decided to wrap everything up with half an hour of advance to have some time to chat with the students, or so he had told Withnail.

“All right everybody, let's put everything away and take out the stuff you want me to sign, I know you've been waiting for this moment so don't be shy!” Marwood said, raising his voice to be heard by all the people scattered around the room.

He flashed a smile at Withnail, who ducked his head and smiled privately. Smug bastard.  
Marwood was positively swarmed by the entire class, but he seemed fine with the attention and was laughing and answering all questions, even the less related to his profession. He didn't look as bothered by his status as he had been when Withnail witnessed him being recognized in public. Perhaps he was reminded of his younger self, Withnail thought.  
The bell rang, and Withnail rose from his chair calmly, knowing it would have taken a little more persuasion besides the bell to unglue the kids from Marwood. Luckily, he was as eager to get that drink as his friend. He moved towards his belongings and most of the students took the hint and went packing their own bags. Once gathered everything, Marwood leaned on the desk and looked at Withnail for a split second, before addressing once again the class:

“I, uhm, want to thank all of you to have given me the opportunity to teach here, you're an amazing group and I think that with the help of your coach you are all destined to great things, you've all worked really hard and adapted really quickly. Just do me a favour, all right? Do not drive him insane. I know he's hard to deal with, but have faith in him. He's a great teacher-” Marwood looked at him, with a complicit smile that hid something more, maybe gratitude? Withnail smiled back to feign composure in front of the students, who were chuckling at Marwood's words.

“- and a friend. And well, hopefully this isn't a goodbye and I'll see more of you. There's a matter I have to discuss with Mr. Withnail, but it's very likely that this won't be the last you see of me.”

The class erupted in a brief but enthusiastic applause as Marwood followed Withnail out of the door.

  
“What the fuck was that?” Withnail asked as soon as the doors closed behind them. He wasn't angry, not really. Just surprised, maybe?

“Just the truth, Withnail. Are we not friends?” Marwood replied, genuine.

“I'm still deciding on that.” He said, lightly.

“Oh, are you. Please tell me when you come up with an answer. Do that before the general rehearsals of Dollhouse, though, because I wanted to ask you if you wanted to bring your class, but I might have to rethink my offer if you don't see me as your friend.” Marwood quipped.

“Well, in that case... I might have to sacrifice my pride for the sake of my pupils.”

Marwood chuckled, and Withnail offered him a smile in return.

“Speaking of sacrificing pride, I have a something to ask you on behalf of my sister-in-law...” Withnail started as they exited the building. They made their way to their respective cars, they would have continued their conversation in front of a cold beer in a matter of minutes anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did the math and I'll be proud of myself if i manage to stay within 30 chapters for the entire work. And I'm barely halfway. I just can't believe people actually read this, it's amazing. Thank you. Although I feel as if I'm rushing. And writing them out of character. Or maybe not, but I'm genuinely daft and I can't tell.


	14. Marwood

The pub didn't offer as many opportunities to be intimate as the one they had gone to during the week, but it was certainly more dignified. Furthermore, being Friday evening, the place was too crowded for Marwood to be the centre of attention, so all he needed to do to avoid unwanted gazes was to position himself behind a wooden column, using Withnail's taller frame as a shield. He found himself talking only to Withnail. When the other teachers tried to approach the two of them, they didn't last long: after a couple of minutes listening to Marwood and Withnail talking (bickering), Withnail's colleagues shrugged and invested themselves in another conversation. Marwood didn't feel too bad about it, if he had to be honest, and as for Withnail, he didn't even seem to notice his colleagues, which came as no surprise, knowing what low esteem he held them in. Marwood suppressed a knowing smirk when a woman in her fifties he remembered as an improvisation coach interrupted them, saying that she wanted a word with his friend. Withnail, surprisingly docile, excused himself from their conversation and followed her with the pace of someone whose fate was the gallows.

 They were some two weeks he had just lived. From the shock of seeing Withnail again, to the anger he felt at his unexplained disdain, to the cautious hope and relative calm of the last week, which had surely been some sort of breach into Withnail's shell, aged decades. Or maybe he was just cutting him some slack. But no, that was unlikely, wasn't it? The compulsion to be unpleasantly caustic dominated Withnail's attempts at peace. Marwood knew well his friend's masochistic nature, hidden so carefully by his rebellious pretences.

Furthermore, now that they had found each other after so many years, he discovered that, as bitterly yet eagerly he had left him ten years ago, the reluctance to forget about all of it was just as strong. Was it guilt? Maybe. Marwood had long ago realised that uncovering the true psychological nature of his needs hardly ever stopped him -or anyone, for the matter- from acting upon them. So really, if he didn't want to let Withnail go, he had to take preemptive measures, find ways to maintain contact. That was one of the reasons he had invited Withnail's students to his general rehearsals. Of course he cared about the impact it would have on the students, it was just that he cared about the impact it would have on Withnail a little more. It was a promise of sorts, just in case Withnail planned on disappearing again. Not that Marwood would let him this time, but he was just making sure.

Marwood was fighting the impulse to reach out, to hang on tight to Withnail as if a rush of wind could make him disappear. He was well acquainted with his friend's stern new reservedness, but it wasn't enough to dull his curiosity, his guilt-veiled concern. And he ached, God knows if he didn't. He ached for the connection that, had it been up to him, would have been there already. He remembered the ways he allowed himself to reach for Withnail, failing still. Marwood wanted to believe he had known Withnail well, but judging from where they were now, he couldn't be sure. He couldn’t even tell where his blame for their falling apart finished and Withnail's started. Halfway, or two thirds for Withnail and one for himself, fair enough.

Withnail seemed to need time, but what for? Hadn't he had ten years already? Weren't those enough to get all his psychiatric complexes sorted? Marwood was tired of being kicked around and left to mentally rehearse all his own guilts and wrongdoings. He was willing to pay out of his own pocket for a therapist if it would mean an improvement.

His focus slowly came back to reality when Withnail returned, looking like he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon, scoffing distastefully. Marwood felt his stomach knot.

“Bitch,” Withnail muttered. Marwood laughed halfway through a sip of ale, and brought a hand to his mouth to avoid making a mess. He swallowed.

 “What did she want?” Marwood asked.

“Something about not taking my sweet time with the film we shot. I stopped listening after the first thirty seconds,” Withnail replied, swaying closer.

“Of course you did. What were you saying about your sister-in-law earlier?” Marwood remembered.

“Oh, right. Please note I wouldn't ask you for this if it didn't come with great advantage for me.”

Marwood made an encouraging expression.

“Noted.” He said.

“She wants your autograph.”

“That's it?”

“Well, yes. I hate to ask you, though.”

“It's not an issue for me. Although...”

“What?”

“Although I do wonder what you'll gain from this,” Marwood inquired, grinning, one eyebrow rising. Withnail exhaled.

“A little peace, hopefully. My brother Edmund's been pestering me, calling me every week asking how I’m doing.”

“Oh, how dare he!” Marwood said, ironically outraged, “does this mean you haven't been estranged from the Withnail family quite yet, then?”

“I've been estranged from the Withnail family for more than twenty years now, Marwood, that hasn't changed,” Withnail said through gritted teeth, looking at some unspecified point to his right.

“But Edmund calls you,” Marwood observed.

“Oh, Edmund's been estranged too, to some extent; though not as permanently as I have. The fact that my sister-in-law is black isn't a problem, the problem is that she's _American_. Or at least that's what my mother said.” Withnail finished his drink with a single gulp, “I've got two nephews. I'm Uncle Vivian now.” He frowned again.

“That's adorable. Congratulations.” Marwood joked flatly.

“Sod off.”

Marwood was aware of how fond his smile felt, hidden behind his glass. He was glad that Withnail was too engrossed with scanning the pub for a waiter to see.

“Withnail.” Marwood tried to catch his attention, but over the loud chatter the other man didn't hear him.

“Hey, Wi',” He nudged at him with his elbow.

Withnail turned without a word, expecting Marwood's.

“Don't you want to get out of here?” Marwood asked, casual.

“God, yes. I thought you'd never ask,” Withnail replied with relief.

 Marwood smiled and ducked his head.

“I know you so well,” he said, certain that he could be heard by Withnail. No response came.

“I'll go ahead and meet you in the car park, I think you have a couple of formal goodbyes to bid,” Withnail informed him, looking at his colleagues.

“What, you’ll just leave? Won't they wonder where you've gone?”

“Look at them, they're all half drunk already. They won't notice.”

“Of course they'll notice, you bloody fool, we're leaving together!” Marwood hissed.

Withnail coughed out a laugh. “I can already picture the headlines: 'Celebrated Actor Peter Marwood Elopes With Drama Coach For An Evening Of Decadent Debauchery... more on page sixteen'...” He sighed. “Come on, Marwood. They don't care. Now go make a few of those charming tight smiles of yours and I'll wait for you outside. Do you have a fag?”

Marwood glared at him and extracted the chewed up box from his pocket and handed him a cigarette.

“If that car park is deserted when I get out of this hellhole, I'll find out where you live and I'll egg your door,” Marwood warned him, voice stern but with no threat in it.

“You have too much faith in my car. I'm only leaving with you because I don't know if that box of rusty gearing will get me home,” Withnail smirked. He eyed Marwood for a couple of seconds then slid away from the column to head to the counter.

Marwood finished his drink and scanned the crowd for the few teachers he felt he needed to bid farewell to properly. The rest of the teaching staff who did not have the pleasure of knowing him would have to settle for the mere news of his leaving. He shook a few hands that all seemed to come from the same ten-armed creature who kept repeating that meeting him had been marvellous and he was welcome at the academy anytime. _I'd bloody well hope so, it used to be my school_ , Marwood thought, unnecessarily bitter.

Disentangling himself from sugary pleas and groaned protests at his urgency to depart, Marwood threw a couple of notes on the counter to pay for his drinks and then some, and stepped out into the cold, squinting at the shift of light and temperature, searching for Withnail while hugging his coat tight to his chest. Of the cigarette he had given him, there was just the crushed butt at his feet, in his right hand a rollie, half smoked, unlit.

“Any idea where you'd like to go?” Withnail inquired.

“I do.”

“Care to share?”

“I don't know, will you file a restraining order against me if I suggest we have takeaway at your place?” Marwood replied, his voice steadier than he felt himself.

The cold did not make him feel any less as if he was walking on hot coals. Withnail looked at him, pensive.

“I suppose I'm not totally opposed to the suggestion. However, I cannot assure you that Charles is of the same mind,” Withnail said at last, lightly, “he's an awful host.”

Marwood's heart, which had been beating wildly with fear since he dared to voice his desire to see where Withnail lived, stopped abruptly and he wondered if it was possible to die of relief. Then he was assailed by doubt. It had been too easy.

“Do you have a preference for the food?”

“As long as you pay, anything is fine,” Withnail shrugged.

“Chinese it is, then. Go on, get in the car already and lead the way. I'm fucking freezing my arse off.”

They each got into their own cars, Withnail’s sputtering weakly a couple of times before igniting.

For the first time in months Marwood felt a sort of stirring calmness pervading him, as he drove slowly into the traffic, eyes glued on the Mini ahead of him. Marwood was careful not to call what he felt in that precise moment happiness, as the traitorous emotion was a fickle and shy one, ready to disappear when chased, so he decided it felt more like a belonging of sorts. Certainly, it scared him that belonging was what he felt when he was headed towards Withnail's house. He wanted to be more careful, but he and Withnail seemed so at ease with each other, though not quite as if nothing had changed. He could see Withnail dangling a sword above him, daring him to raise his head just to see if he would stab himself in the eye. Marwood had obliged so far.

They weren't in their twenties anymore, yet they were no less partial to their vices than they used to be. Memories of drunken fights and long silences crept upon Marwood like a sickness. He could only hope that Withnail resented those moments half as much as he did. What they had had, it wasn't healthy. Withnail had made him feel weak, powerless, helpless. He felt just as vulnerable again in that moment, Withnail always ready to shut the door on his face. But being vulnerable, for once, did not make him feel trapped. He felt free. It was alright, the night was going to go well, Withnail didn't seem to want to lash out venomously at him. They were going to eat their food, maybe watch a film and then he would drive home to his empty bed in his empty apartment.

Yeah, he felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both terrible at this. And even if it seems as if Marwood is catching up on his feelings or whatever, he's not. He has a long way to go. Withnail, on the other hand.... 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this won't get too personal but if someone with a degree in psychology were to psychoanalyze me through this, oh boy. Also probably in the future I will link a fanmix that goes with this work, but it won't be strictly about their relationship as more of a sort of soundtrack to the narration, like music they'd listen to, or that I'd use if this was a film instead of fanfiction. One can dream. 
> 
> Come find my punk ass on tumblr at the same url!! :))))


	15. Withnail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for recreational drug use in this chapter, but honestly, if you're reading this I assume you watched the film, so what do you need warnings for?

Maybe it had been the alcohol talking, or maybe some part of him really did think he owed Marwood something. Whichever it was, Withnail didn't give much thought to the implications that bringing Marwood over would have. On the way to the takeaway place he mentally checked over his house, trying to find anything potentially compromising he might have left around, but he realised that there wasn't really anything  _physical_ he wanted to hide from Marwood. He needed pills to sleep sometimes, maybe he even had some antidepressants lying around, forgotten in the back of some pantry, perhaps they ended up in the spice rack. So what? It wasn't a big deal. He'd always been a little troubled. The situation wasn't nearly alarming or obvious enough to raise Marwood's apprehensions. Still, Withnail’s hands fidgeted as he tried to light up the fag hanging from his chapped lips.

He ended up paying for the takeaway, it was only a couple of pounds. Marwood pulled a perplexed face at him behind his Jaguar's windscreen, but Withnail didn't even look at him as he waved in dismissal. He just wanted to speed things up. In the end all Marwood did was wind down the car window and tell Withnail that he would have bought the spring rolls.

 When Withnail parked his car in front of his house, he got out of it and waited, feeling quite stupid, for Marwood to reverse into a tight parking spot across the road. He locked the Jaguar and walked to Withnail, looking around, pensive. Withnail knew what was to come, and climbed the steps to his door.

“This place looks quite familiar...” Marwood observed.

“How perceptive of you. Yes, this is Monty's house. Well, not anymore,” Withnail sighed as he looked for the keys in his bag.

“Oh. What happened to him?” Marwood asked, cautiously neutral.

“What do you think? Dead. There's no amount of indoor-grown fennel that can save you from clogged arteries, apparently.”

“I didn't know. I'm sorry, Withnail,” managed Marwood, finally crossing the threshold and cleaning his shoes on the carpet.

“'Course you are,” he muttered. He didn't believe Marwood's words and he didn't care.

Withnail rested his belongings on the closest surface to remove his coat and Marwood did the same, then he followed his friend to the kitchen. By the time he stepped in, Withnail had already taken out a six pack and a bottle of wine. When he turned, Withnail saw Marwood scowling at the bottles with resignation, and he snorted.

“You can put them on the coffee table, I don't like eating takeaway properly either,” said Withnail as he looked for all the necessary things around the kitchen. He kept an eye on Marwood as he headed to the living room.

“You must excuse the general disarray this place is in... ah, you see, I didn't know I was going to have guests,” Withnail continued from the kitchen, unable to hide the embarrassment in his voice.

He walked to his friend, who in the meantime had sat down in the armchair bent stiffly forward, with his hands between his knees, still looking around.

“It looks fine, Withnail, really. I like how you changed the place. I wasn't feeling too well when you told me this was Monty's house, but seeing that you've restyled it my mind's at ease.” Marwood laughed nervously and reached for the bottle opener.

Withnail hadn't sat down yet and was intent in removing what occupied the coffee table (various books and magazines, an assortment of kitchenware used as an improvised ashtray and an actual ashtray). He finally sat down and opened the container on his food. He shoved an enormous spoonful in his mouth to fill the silence, earning an amused huff from Marwood to which he responded with a glare.

Withnail finished his dinner first and cleaned all the rubbish from the coffee table, aware that he must have looked restless in his unusual tidiness. He washed his hands for no reason at all aside from needing a moment to himself to internalize the situation. He stood, staring at the water flowing from the tap like it held the secret to his own troubled mind, until he saw a blur of movement behind him, which he determined to be Marwood politely bringing his own dirty dish to the kitchen.

“Everything all right, Withnail?” he asked, sounding easy, but vaguely concerned.

Withnail hated him for it.

“Yeah, sorry. I just got lost in my own thoughts,” Withnail replied quickly, dismissive. “Leave it on the counter, I'll clean up tomorrow.”

Marwood smiled tightly at him, which made Withnail's breath catch. He knew Marwood was uncomfortable, but damn it, the bastard had asked for it, hadn't he? He had been the one offering to go to his place when he knew they both would have been strung tight as guitar chords in each other's presence. The alcohol helped, at least, especially for Marwood. He was just keeping him company.

Withnail abruptly turned his head to the sound of the back door getting scratched at insistently by Charles, demanding to get in. The cat hesitated a bit when the door opened in front of him, then he stepped in, rubbing his face against his owner's legs, expectantly. Withnail was aware of being watched by Marwood from the other end of the kitchen, but he made no show of it. Instead, he knelt to pick Charles up and held him firm against his chest. Only then did he acknowledge the other presence. Marwood smiled and approached the two of them gingerly, with a pace that seemed to be asking if it was alright and if the ferocious beast Withnail was nursing was likely to claw his pretty face open.

“You said you wanted too see Charles, right? Well, there he is. I'm warning you, I can't hold him for long or he'll get pissed at me,” Withnail said, not looking at Marwood closing the distance between them. He kept scratching Charles' chin instead, hoping to keep him calm for a couple of seconds more.

“Oh, hey,” Marwood said softly to Charles as he offered a hand to sniff. The cat didn't react so he started running his fingers on the top of his head. “You know, I expected an half-rabid animal from what you told me,” he said, looking up at Withnail.

Withnail realised how close they were. Marwood was invading his personal space enough for him to smell his fading but expensive cologne, his sweater soaked with the smell of stale tobacco and the oily chinese food they had eaten. Having a solid head of difference between them, from his position Withnail could see mostly Marwood's hair, leaning on dirty from the humidity and smog and cigarette smoke and grease, he supposed, to keep it combed neatly but its effect fading. Before he could stop himself, he was thinking about how it would feel to run a hand through it, how Marwood would look with his hair unruly, dirty and sticking everywhere. He almost pictured it, almost remembered. He wondered how his hand would feel afterwards, sticky-slick, the smell of his own nicotine-stained fingers even stronger. He almost felt it, but he had nothing to remember.

Then he caught himself and tore his eyes away as if he was witnessing torture, but he wasn't fast enough to prevent Marwood from noticing his frankly quite unsettling staring.

Charles squirmed and whined in protest in Withnail's arms, so he let him drop to the floor and wander his way though to the living room. He looked down at his chest, and grimaced as if the cat hair sticking everywhere was somehow a surprise.

Marwood took a step back from Withnail as he tried to get the most of the fur off his clothes, but he was still looking at him, with the stupid smirk of someone who had just received a really good hand at poker but couldn't keep the bluff up.

“What?” snapped Withnail impatiently as Marwood kept staring and staring and not saying a word. It was unnerving Withnail, because he looked like he knew what Withnail had been thinking about while he was innocently petting his cat.

“My God. You really love that cat,” Marwood finally said.

Withnail huffed out a laugh, half pointless relief and the other half mild exasperation. Charles was his cat. Of course he was fond of him.

“We tolerate each other,” Withnail declared.

“I bet you spoil him.”

“Nonsense. We have a mutually beneficial agreement in which I give him a warm place to sleep and he keeps the rats out of the house.”

“And what would be the warm place where he sleeps, mh? Your bed? Is he allowed on the furniture? Are the cat toys in your living room included in your agreement?” teased Marwood. His shit-eating grin turned victorious as Withnail felt embarrassment show hot on his face.

“I-” Withnail stammered, “I tried to keep him off the furniture! He jumps on it anyway! And excuse me if I can't be arsed to get him off the bed at three in the morning after downing two sleeping pills!” He grumbled, cursing himself internally. Sadly, the cat toys were inexcusable.

Marwood was smiling triumphantly and Withnail really, really felt like decking him.

“It's alright, Wi'. But please warn me if you plan to pick up indoor gardening as hobby,” he said at last, and Withnail froze for a second. Was Marwood implying something? This wasn't like his brother mocking him with pretty much the same words, (although, Cyril's had had no playful edge and could have qualified as insults, in all sincerity).

He thought he was going to be sick, but Marwood's face was simply amused at his own joke. He couldn't have meant anything more by it. Could he?

“Are you insinuating something, Marwood?” Withnail asked, trying to maintain a light tone, aware that a hostile inquiry wouldn't help his case right now.

Marwood just grinned and shrugged, and Withnail was glad to see that he had dropped the matter. Safe until he brought home a potted plant, he guessed.

A flash of a thought, and Withnail was telling Marwood to wait for him for a couple of minutes as he went upstairs to fetch something. Marwood had looked at him at a loss, not knowing what to do with himself if not sit on the couch and look around dumbly. Withnail felt a grin curving his lips as he climbed the flight of stairs and headed to the studio. Hoping that Marwood still had some debauchery in him, he only deemed appropriate to share the grass he had acquired from a rather unsubtle student. At least he hadn't been one of his. As he licked the skin to seal the joint together and tapped it on the desk, he prayed that Marwood wasn't going to get paranoid on him. That would have meant shaking for the future couple of hours and hence no driving back home for him, which would have been an inconvenience for a thousand different reasons.

He tucked the thing behind his left ear and headed back to the living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Charles getting overtly friendly with his guest. Whore.

“Oh, you're back. I was about to go check on you. What took you so long?” Marwood asked, still engrossed with the cat.

“A little something for 'Old Times' Sake', as you once said,” he replied cheerfully. That got to Marwood to shift his attention, his eyes zeroing on his lifted hand holding the joint.

“No way,” Marwood flat-out laughed, and it made Withnail smile because he sounded incredulous, but not put off by the idea.

“Yes way. Come on, Marwood, you surely wouldn't want me to smoke all this on my own?” he said cheekily, eyeing his hand and wishing that his friend didn’t need convincing. As if they hadn't done worse, and more irresponsibly.

“You're impossible,” Marwood replied, but he had gotten up from the couch and stood a couple of feet from Withnail. “I’ve got to be honest, it's been a while,” he continued, taking his brass zippo from his pocket and fidgeting with the cap.

“How long?”

“A year or two? I don’t really remember.”

“Oh, listen to yourself. How proper you are. I assume it's a personal choice, isn't it? Certainly you don't lack the opportunities, being in your field of work.”

“No, that I don't, you're right. I never had the itch, I suppose. And Dottie being how she was about smoking...” Marwood said, looking rather pensive. He held out the lighter for Withnail to light up the joint. Withnail obliged.

He took a deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs and let it out slowly, watching Marwood through it before replying.

“Well, I'm glad to be the one dragging you down this devious path after all these years.”

Marwood huffed amusedly at him, but he said nothing. Withnail took another drag and passed the joint to him. He moved to the couch, while Marwood approached his library, drawn by the record section. He flipped through them, studying each one. He stopped when he reached a familiar black and white cover, which he pulled out and showed to Withnail, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _really?._ Withnail shrugged. Sure, Led Zeppelin didn't exactly fit in with his tastes, but he did remember Marwood playing the same very record almost every day back when it had been a novelty.

“Wait, is this mine?” asked Marwood.

Withnail shrugged again, casual.

“Probably. I don't remember buying it” It wasn't a lie. He didn't remember buying it because he never did. He did remember hiding it from Marwood, though, so he didn't have to listen to Plant's whining one single more time.

“Yeah, because you didn't, you bastard,” Marwood said, but he didn't sound particularly mad.

“Keep it, I don't really listen to it, anyway.” That was a lie, but if it meant he could get rid of something that he hadn't had the heart throw away when he moved in simply because it belonged to Marwood, Withnail was willing to lie.

“Well, you should have given it back to me before I made them sign another copy, then. It's yours now,” he smiled at Withnail over his shoulder, then took the vinyl out from its cover, delicately rested it on the record player, trafficking with buttons before finally putting the pin in place. There was a scratch as he skipped the first track and a softer tune started to play.

Withnail had a brief suicidal flash, but he suppressed it. Marwood walked to the couch and threw himself on it, passing the joint, reaching for two beers and uncapping them, handing one to Withnail.

He was about to drink his, but he stopped when he turned to Marwood, who was holding his bottle toward Withnail's. He smirked.

“Chin chin,” he said, and the two bottles met halfway with a clink. He downed a quarter of it in the first gulp.

Then he took another deep drag of smoke, and let himself relax on the couch, his head thrown back to look at the ceiling, yellow with the chandelier's warm tones. He wasn't too sure, but the shadows seemed to be softly swaying. Plant's voice wasn't as unpleasant as he remembered, or maybe he had just gotten used to it. He sat up straight just to take another drag and pass the joint again, and he almost laughed when he saw a lazy, stupid smile peeking from Marwood's features. He kept staring at him, wondering if his eyes had already started to redden, he couldn't tell. It seemed too early, but Marwood had always been so pale, so prone to showing effects of whatever drug he was trying, as if it was always his first time. At least he held his booze with dignity.

In that precise moment, Withnail was actually feeling quite disappointed in his body. How was he already drunk and stoned? It usually took him a couple more ales to become so limp and warm. He was getting old, that must be it. Marwood nudged at him with his foot to get his attention to the hand he was holding out to pass the joint, which was burnt almost to the filter. He took it, and this time when he inhaled, he closed his eyes.

Plant's lovesick whines were still echoing in the room:

 

_I can't quit you baby_

_So I'm gonna put you down for awhile_

_I said I can't quit you baby_

_I guess I gotta put you down for awhile..._

 

Maybe in a couple of minutes Withnail would get up and changed record. Or roll another joint, or take out the liquor out from the cabinet. Just, in a while, he thought. And he closed his eyes again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this chapter is a bit longer than usual, but I really needed some more space to develop this decently and I'm warning you, the next 2 chapters will be written in Withnail's POV to advance the story a bit. Withnail will be the driving force for some more chapters, then hopefully there will be a bit more equilibrium.  
> The album mentioned is of course Led Zeppelin's first album, titled Led Zeppelin, which came out in 1969, so you can't tell me Marwood didn't listen to it. The track being skipped is Good Times Bad Times, so they start with Babe I'm Gonna Leave You (that's why Withnail had that suicidal flash) while the lyrics from this chapter are from my personal favourite in this album that would be I Can't Quit You Baby. I promise this will be the last Led Zeppelin reference in this fic. Maybe next time they'll listen to The Doors début album, that shit slaps. Infinite thanks to my beta as usual, chapter 16 will be ready soon :)


	16. Withnail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mess

In his dream, Withnail did not feel cold. Actually, he wasn't sure he felt his limbs at all, but not in an unpleasant way. His legs and arms felt like heavy cushions attached to his body, sinking into this soft surface that definitely wasn't his bed. His bed was more comfortable. He had to be on his couch, which wasn't unexpected. Nothing out of the ordinary. In his dream, there had also been a phone ringing in the distance. Thank God it was a dream and it was Saturday morning, so clearly no one was calling. The ringing was probably due to the amount of alcohol he had drunk last night. He couldn't recall much, but he knew he had drunk more than usual.

Charles moved next to him. Or at least, he thought it was Charles, he couldn't really see. Then the ringing abruptly stopped, and Withnail felt relief for a couple of second, until he heard something worse.

“Hello?” said a groggy voice. Not just any voice. Withnail was still stuck in a semi-conscious, inebriated slumber, but he was aware enough to remember that Marwood had been with him last night, and that was undoubtedly his voice.

He snapped his eyes open and immediately regretted it as he was blinded by the early white light. It felt like he was being lobotomised with a fucking ice pick.

“Oh God,” he groaned, and tried to stand up slowly, very slowly. He used the couch's armrest to support his weight and discarded the blanket that was covering him. He stood still for a couple of seconds, trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah he's... hold on, I'll get him for you,” he heard Marwood say from near where the phone was, and he moved towards him.

Before Marwood could turn and realize that Withnail had woken up, he snatched the receiver from his hand and glared at him. Marwood’s response was to stand back, looking embarrassed.

“Yes?” he spoke into the phone, rubbing his closed eyes.

“Good morning, Vivian,” a familiar, fastidiously smug voice said.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, “hi, Edmund.”

“Sounds like you didn’t get much sleep last night...”

“I will murder you,” he hissed into the phone, trying to see if Marwood was still behind him, listening in, but he was nowhere in sight. He sighed. “I assure you this is not what you think, and I'd appreciate if you'd stop making assumptions,” he whispered angrily, not knowing if he was within earshot of his friend.

“What's his name?” Edmund continued, undaunted.

“It's Marwood, you fucking idiot!”

“Oh. Oh, shit,” There was yelling at the other end of the line that Withnail couldn't make out, but it sounded like Nancy saying something about language. “Sorry. I take everything back. But you sound tired, Viv, is everything alright?”

“I was doing splendidly before you woke me up,” he grimaced.

“It's almost midday.”

“Fuck me. Really?” he said, glancing at the clock in his kitchen, which confirmed Edmund's words.

“How much did you drink?”

“None of your business.”

“I'd like to argue about that, but I already know where it will bring us. Just-”

“Ed...” Withnail warned him, not in the right state for his brother's scolding. If he had let him continue, he was sure he would have snapped at him and he was way too sick to deal with the consequences later.

“I'll make it quick and let you get back to your guest, then. I simply called to tell you that Cyril is dropping by Tuesday evening, so I thought you might prefer come on Monday,” said Edmund.

Withnail was distracted by Marwood coming back to the kitchen, looking significantly less dishevelled, betrayed only by half mast, bloodshot eyes. He glanced at Withnail and started opening various cabinets. When he noticed that Withnail was looking at him, he mouthed "cups?" and Withnail pointed to the cabinet to his left.

“Yeah, uh, that sounds fine. I'll be there by eight p.m.”

“We'll be waiting.”

“What should I get for Elizabeth?” he asked, suddenly remembering that he still didn't have a present for his niece.

“She's a nine year old child, Vivian. She likes dolls,” replied Edmund, sounding lightly exasperated.

“Right, I'll get her a book, then. Bye, Edmund,” he said, and hung up before his brother could reply. He could hear Marwood pouring liquid into two cups and if that was coffee, then it was the priority.

He turned to see Marwood leaning on the counter, blowing on a cup of steaming hot coffee, with the other cup next to him. He felt Marwood's eyes on him as he grabbed it with a fierce grip.

“Good morning,” Marwood said. “How's your head?” he continued, knowingly.

“I've been worse,” he shrugged. He had surely been worse, but in that precise moment he couldn't really recall when. His head was throbbing awfully and it seemed the only concrete thing in a surreal morning in which Marwood picked up a call from his brother and made him coffee. What the fuck?

“Thanks for the coffee,” he grumbled. He took a sip, and swore that nothing had ever tasted better. He almost told Marwood he could have kissed him, then almost choked on his coffee for thinking that.

“Don't mention it,” Marwood paused. “your brother, I assume?”

“You assume well.”

They sipped their coffee in silence, Marwood glancing around. Withnail, on the other hand, was trying to recall last night's happenings. It was pretty clear until he decided to open a bottle of authentic Marseille pastis a colleague of his had gotten him for his birthday years ago. The rest of the evening remained a mystery, but the house was a mess. There were glasses and cigarette butts everywhere, and at some point he had lost his tie, jacket, shoes and left sock. Jesus Christ, he thought. Talk about an unexpected turn of events.

“Do you have plans for later? Since it’s so late I thought we could grab lunch, then I have to head to the theatre. Oh, and I have to call my agent, I think I might have missed an important appointment. Or two. Any chance I could use your phone?” Marwood added the last words with a pained expression.

“That sounds...” Withnail stopped for a second, thinking about his answer.

It made sense, as a plan. Lunch, then he could find an open bookshop to get something for Elizabeth, and do some Christmas shopping for his nephews and Nancy. He kind of felt sick at the thought of all those crowded malls and shops, but it had to be done. Fuck, Marwood had invited him to lunch, he realized. The worst part was that he wanted to say yes, because he had had fun the previous night and most importantly, he was starving.

“...good,” he said at last, “but I need a shower first. You know where the phone is.”

He headed upstairs and let Marwood take care of his business with his agent. He didn't want to be there to hear him get yelled at for missing his scheduled appointment, knowing he was partly to blame. He let the shower jet get warm enough to steam, then he stepped in and shivered in relief as hot, almost scalding water loosened his muscles, tight from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. He washed himself quickly so he could stay a couple of minutes in contemplation, then he got out. He dried his hair as best as he could with a towel, and opened the cabinet trying to remember which pills he had to take. He took an aspirin too, and brought the bottle with him to bring downstairs in case Marwood needed one. When he entered his bedroom, he noticed Charles sleeping peacefully on his bed, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

Except... except that Charles had been sleeping next to him to the couch, right? Because he had felt him before waking up. But he couldn't remember seeing him once.  A terrible realization dawned upon him. The thing next to him had been decisively bigger and more human. He quickly checked the guest room and discovered with horror that it was untouched. So, he had slept next to Marwood, on the couch. Great, fucking excellent. Nothing that hadn't happened before, and at least he had had the small mercy of not assuming a compromising position during his sleep, but it wasn't of much comfort against the impending need to crack his skull against the door jamb. He had started so well, trying to keep Marwood at distance. And that's where it got him, with his brother thinking his one night stand had picked up the call. He was never going to hear the end of it. Most importantly, he needed to get a bloody grip. He couldn't do this again, he realized. He had already been so sure that he wouldn’t survive simply meeting Marwood again and having a professional relationship with him, how could he survive this? The pair of them acting like they were back in Camden, getting disgustingly arseholed and getting up at noon, missing calls from agents, all for what? Marwood forgetting about his existence in favour of heading back to the dazzling, glamorous world of the entertainment industry in a matter of hours. Marwood always left in the worst way possible: making Withnail believe he gave a damn about him just to vanish afterwards. And he still had the fucking gall to picture Withnail as the selfish bastard of the two! He couldn't. He couldn't take it. He couldn't fall for it twice.

He got dressed with shaky hands, not really making an effort to pair his clothes. When he headed downstairs, it felt like a dream. Marwood was waiting for him in the kitchen, scribbling absentmindedly in that notebook of his. He took the aspirins out of his pocket and put them in front of Marwood, who looked at the bottle first, then at Withnail, then back at the bottle. He uncapped it and swallowed two, without a word.

Withnail busied himself pouring some food in Charles' bowl and putting the majority of the dishes in the sink, despite it not being effective in making the house look less like a battlefield.

“Ready to go?” asked Marwood, looking up from his notebook as he saw that Withnail had his fundamental belongings in his hands.

“Yeah, lead the way,” he replied.

Withnail closed the front door behind him and waited for Marwood to get into his Jaguar to shake himself out of his own reflections and follow him with his own car. For a moment he thought about what would happen if he swerved into the other lane at some point in the ride so that he wouldn't have had to deal with his thoughts about the situation anymore. But for now, he just kept his eyes fixed on the car in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for those who were expecting them waking up spooning or something of the sort but this isn't that kind of fic because I'm a fucking masochist myself! The burn has to be so slow that it brings its own author to the edge of insanity! Anyway this is merely a bridge chapter and I can't wait to publish chapter 17 that will unlock even more Withnail backstory (Has anyone asked for it? Probably not, but it's the thing I enjoy writing the most in this fic until we get to the fucking action) and all you need to know is that rich people don't know how to act. I'm on tumblr and all that shit. 
> 
> Oh also Marwood put the blanket on Withnail but it's not like he'll ever find out ;)


	17. Withnail

Withnail stubbed the rollie on his sole and threw the butt behind his shoulders before smoothing his jacket and running a hand through his hair. He rang the doorbell twice, but he knew it wouldn't have been necessary, because he had seen a round face peeking from the kitchen window as he got out of his car, and he knew he had been seen. The door opened and Edmund appeared, smiling broadly and looking like he was about to leap and hug him.

“Viv! Welcome, come in!” he said, gesturing into the hall, where Tommy, Edmund's eldest son, was looking at him with mild interest.

“Hi, Ed. Hi, Tommy,” greeted Withnail with the best smile he could muster. It wasn't half bad.

“Hi uncle,” replied Tommy briefly, with a politeness that surely had been forced upon him a few minutes before Withnail’s arrival. He already liked the kid.

“Tom, why don't you go tell mum that your uncle is here?”

Tommy seemed glad to take off to the kitchen. Withnail had shrugged off his coat in the meantime, and found for the wine bottle he had brought for dinner. He handed it to Edmund, who raised his eyebrows appreciatively, but said nothing. He patted Withnail on his shoulder instead, and looked at him with an amused expression.

“Everything alright, I suppose?” he asked, after a couple of seconds.

“I'm fine, thank you. Yourself?”

“I've been a bit busy lately, otherwise all good. Come, Nancy is probably still in the kitchen making sure all the appetizers are aligned. Honestly, I told her not to worry so much about details but she won't listen,” Ed moved towards the kitchen door.

Withnail followed him, bringing the paper bag with Lizzie's present in it. The room smelled strongly of roasted onions and potatoes and something warmer, sweeter, resembling a childhood memory long lost or maybe dreamt. Nancy was stirring something in a steaming pot over the stove, while Elizabeth was propped up on a stool aggressively scribbling on a piece of paper. When her father appeared, she immediately stopped to look at the two men with wide brown eyes.

“Hello Elizabeth,” said Withnail. It felt extremely odd to see her smile so widely at him.

“Uncle!” she exclaimed, and jumped off the stool. Edmund, to his left, let out a soft laugh.

“Is that for me?” she asked, coming up right in front of him and pointing at the bag in his hand.

Withnail felt abnormally tall, so he knelt to talk to her better.

“Lizzie...” interrupted Edmund, in a light warning tone.

“Why, she's right, Ed. Here, happy birthday,” Withnail said, handing the kid her bright, shiny prize, which she took quickly from his hands.

“What do you say to uncle Viv, sweetheart?”

“Thank you,” she remembered, and Withnail couldn't help smiling at her, if not as happily as her, he at least tried his best, “can I open it now?”

“Well, of course you can. Go ahead,” he encouraged her.

She ripped the colourful paper to shreds in a matter of seconds, then studied the book that it revealed intently, first looking at the cover then flipping the pages, stopping at each drawing that caught her eye.

Withnail had picked an illustrated adaptation of A Midsummer's Night Dream for children that had attracted his attention with detailed watercolours. He had decided upon seeing it that it was better than the doll he had almost resigned himself to buying at some point, when the shopping became overwhelmingly frustrating.

Elizabeth ran to her mother, showing her the new present and Nancy listened and watched attentively, nodding along to her cheerful rambling and promising that she would read it to her before bed. Then she ran upstairs, without saying a word, probably looking for her brother to show off too.

 “Vivian! Aren't you gonna say hi to me?” Nancy said, breaking the brief silence, wiping her hands clean before approaching him.

“Hi Nancy,” replied Withnail, apologetically.

“Oh, none of that! Come here,” she grumbled, pulling him into a tight hug that smelled like home cooked dinner and probably cracked a few of his ribs.

Withnail made a muffled sound and heard Edmund stifle a laugh.

“How are you?” he managed, once he caught his breath.

“I'm doing great, thank you. You, on the other hand, look awful, my dear. When was the last time you had a proper meal?” she concluded as she did each time she saw him. Withnail didn't mind her fussing, especially because it often earned him a few baked goods to bring home with him.

“This Saturday, actually,” he replied truthfully.

Nancy gave him a look, but didn't add anything else on the matter. Rather, she invited the two men to go ahead and sit at the table and get the bottle open. Edmund didn't say, instead he kept giving Withnail what he probably thought were inconspicuous looks, which barely concealed his apprehension. Withnail suppressed an eyeroll.

When everyone was seated, Edmund's attention was shifted to his wife's cooking and Withnail felt more relaxed, even if he knew that the matter was just left for later in the evening. Despite the tension he always felt in situations such as these, Withnail's appetite was unscathed and he could see Nancy's lips curling into a proud smile when he asked for another serving of meat. Elizabeth interrupted her meal often to ask, with a child's relentless curiosity, questions about Withnail's general existence, ranging from his favourite colour (Withnail had to make it up on the spot) to his cat's name, just to be mildly scolded when she asked why could he never come to Grandma's Christmas lunch. He dismissed Nancy's stern face at her by simply saying that his job kept him busy. It was better to lie than leave her question unanswered, she was more likely to forget about it later in life. Tommy was clearly listening, and probably with the years would connect more dots than his sister, but he was pretending to be engrossed in stabbing some sautéed string beans. Withnail definitely liked him. He had potential.

Dessert was simply some leftover cake from the birthday party, but it was good nonetheless. It didn't take long before Elizabeth started yawning uncontrollably and Edmund offered to take her to bed, and while Withnail suspected that it was a bit early for Tommy to hit the hay, he doubted that he wanted to stay at the table with the adults as he looked bored enough. Elizabeth wasn't so tired that Edmund had to pick her up, but she meekly followed her father as he held her hand leading her to her room. Tommy followed the pair after kissing his mother goodnight and wishing Withnail one.

Being left only with Nancy, he thought it was the perfect time to give her the piece of paper signed by a spectacularly hungover Marwood that had been burning a hole through his jacket's inner pocket since they said goodbye to each other on Saturday. With a hand he held his wine glass while the other reached for the autograph. He slid it in front of Nancy without a word, waiting for her to catch up. Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized the signature, and she beamed at him.

“Oh my God, Vivian, thank you! Did Edmund tell you I'm a fan?” she said excitedly, her accent slipping on _fan_.

“It's just a signature, really,” he dismissed her, but that didn't stop her from give him a one-armed hug from across the table. Withnail was too surprised by the gesture to stop it.

“Do you know him well?” she asked curiously.

“Well enough to know this wasn't a burden to him,” he replied vaguely, not keen on getting into details with her. Edmund had probably said enough.

“Is he as handsome as on television?” she quipped, eyeing him wryly. Withnail sighed.

“Yeah... but he's shorter than you probably think,” he exhaled heavily, seeing no point in lying. Marwood was a handsome bastard, anyone with eyes could see it. If he felt a tightness in his belly as he admitted that to himself, it was irrelevant.

Nancy didn't add anything else, but she patted his hand resting on the tablecloth before going upstairs to see if Ed needed help. On her way she set a bottle of American whisky and two thick, clear glasses on the table. Withnail knew what was coming: Edmund's dreaded interrogation on his emotional well-being. He was almost tempted to storm off back to his place, but he opted to just go out into the freezing cold and smoke a cigarette or twenty.

 

There was a reason why he allowed Edmund the privilege to open up to him. Two years back, at Monty's funeral, Cyril found out just exactly how much Monty had left to Withnail in his will and they both crooked their respective elbows a bit too much. Withnail thought his behaviour had been justifiable. He was the only member of his extended family there for a purpose that wasn't appearances, which meant that he received more condolences from Monty's acquaintances than the rest of his relatives, a fact that earned him countless unsubtle looks from his family. His skin had itched with annoyance and naturally he had turned to the free bar. At least Monty had known how to throw a funeral in style.

Then Cyril, driven by annoyance and anger of a different origin, had turned to the cocktails, which loosened his tongue and made the contents of their meeting with the lawyer two days previously public. Withnail had been quiet in his drunkenness, putting up a fairly decent act of mourning in order to be left the fuck alone, but Cyril had been... vocal, about his disagreement with his uncle's choices regarding his fortune. It was when he purposely raised his voice loud enough to make sure Withnail (and the entire room) heard Cyril calling him and his uncle 'a pair of fucking fairies' that Withnail lost control. Cowardice cast aside in favour of a blinding, tight, and blood-thick rage, Withnail didn't even realize he had socked his own brother in the jaw until he felt a shot of pain from his knuckles to his shoulder. Cyril had balked at him before tackling him to the ground and managing a punch as weak as his opponent's, but not for lack of trying: Edmund and another relative had been on Cyril before his rugby player build could leave any lasting damage.

Cyril then had been left to his wife and parent's embarrassed care: they had dragged him down a hallway to cool down. When Withnail had met his father's furious, accusatory glare by the door he felt another kind of rage that was so much rawer and absolute than the one he had felt earlier. He had reached behind the counter for the nearest liquor bottle he could find and a handful of ice. Aware that everyone in the room had been looking at him, he still swallowed a fair quarter of the liquid and held the ice to his rapidly swelling cheek before running off, grabbing his jacket on the way, and slamming the door behind him.

He had been shaking; failing to light up his cigarette, and cursing his lighter when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Edmund, who had always been a more understanding character than the rest of his family, had said his brother’s name in a comforting tone and embraced him rather stiffly, and Withnail couldn't help but go limp in his arms, reduced to a mess of ragged, drunken sobs. He would have loved to say that those tears were for Monty's body laying lifeless a few feet from him, it would have felt like an apology to the dead man, because Withnail had never deserved his sympathy, or forgiveness, or affection and even less had he deserved his house and money, for he never gave a damn about the old bugger and his fucking plants. The only thing they had shared was a passion for dramatics and an infatuation for Peter Marwood. He had felt guilty about his incapability to feel anything sincere for him, he had felt guilty about his misplaced, selfish tears running down his throbbing cheek.

Edmund must have driven him home that night but Withnail could only remember waking with a splitting migraine to his mothers insistent calls. He didn't know what had brought him to answer the phone, but he had hung up as soon as she had suggested seeing a therapist that his father knew. Since the calls did not stop the following days and Withnail would have stuck two safety pins in his eyeballs rather than confiding in anyone who willingly maintained a friendly relationship with his father, when Edmund had come to visit him the following week he made a pact with him that if he agreed to talk to him occasionally, about 'anything that troubles you, Viv, I'm your brother,' then Edmund would have reassure their mother that Withnail was taking care of his mental health. It was the greatest mercy he could have asked for at that moment.

 Withnail heard the door open behind him and turned to see his brother standing under the doorframe, not wanting to to venture further into the cold. He was glad for the interruption from his own memories.

“Why don't you come inside? You must be freezing,” Edmund said.

Withnail looked at him weakly and threw out his almost finished cigarette.

Edmund found his way back to the dinner table and poured the whiskey, raising his in a silent toast that Withnail only returned with his eyes.

“So,” he started, “tell me about Marwood. How did it go?”

“And here I thought you were worried about me, but it seems you're more interested in gossip,” Withnail grimaced as he took a sip of his whiskey.

Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Don't be daft, Vivian.”

“It was... Fine, I presume,” Withnail dismissed uselessly.

“You told him to fuck off, didn't you?”

“What? No!” Withnail said too quickly. Edmund eyed him knowingly, “alright, yes, I did. But can you blame me? He's the one who fucked off to play a soldier and completely disappeared. What does it matter anyway, it didn't work, did it?”

“Considering how you both sounded on the phone on Saturday... No, no it didn't,” Edmund gave an exasperated laugh.

“Yes, well, I don't know if I'll be seeing any more of him now that the workshop's over,” Withnail stated.

“Why not? Viv, I can't be your only friend.”

“You're not my friend, you're my brother.”

“You're maddening, you know that, right?”

“You mentioned that once or twice, yes,” Withnail said, and paused.

“Ed...” he breathing in sharply, “I... I don't want to feel like I felt when he left, ever again.” He choked on the last words, aware that Edmund knew what he meant.

Edmund looked at him fondly and smiled sympathetically.

“Did you talk to him about it?” he asked. Withnail scoffed.

“No. And quit looking at me like that, because I won't.”

“Well, maybe you should. I'm sure he would have wanted to know back then.”

“Yeah, so he can feel guilty for my actions, since I'm apparently incapable of doing that. No, Ed. I can't.”

Edmund sighed deeply, and opened his mouth like he wanted to add something, but he closed it after a couple of seconds and said nothing, ruffling his hair instead.

“Does... Does he know, uhm, about your proclivities?” Ed asked finally, ducking his head.

“No, Edmund, he doesn't know about my _proclivities_ ,” he replied glacial, as always when his brother was afraid to confront his sexuality. His efforts at seeming unaffected by it were clumsy and awkward and always left Withnail wishing he could have a heart attack on command.

“No, and he isn't going to catch onto it anytime soon. Last week he asked if I had a girlfriend.”

Edmund suppressed a laugh with a grin. Then concern was back on his features just as quickly.

“I supposed you're not going to tell him about that either?”

Withnail almost laughed in his face. Yes, what a splendid idea, to tell the man that miraculously didn't realize that Withnail used to be in love with him that he was homosexual. There was no way that it couldn't go wrong, he thought sarcastically.

“No, I'm not. Christ, don't you get it? We're basically strangers, him and I. And I don't want to change that.”

It was the second thing closest to the truth. In his life, Marwood had been only two things to Withnail: a friend who he wished in vain to be something more, and stranger. The second one had hurt significantly less.

“Whatever you say, Viv,” said Edmund, not without a edge of anger in his voice, “just, go easy on the booze, alright?”

Withnail just rolled his eyes, unable to make any promises.

 After that, Edmund started asking more comfortable questions about his job, and he exchanged the favour although not with the same interest. Withnail stopped drinking after his first glass of whiskey, as the roads were slippery with ice and he couldn't really call a cab. At some point, probably after hearing that the conversation had shifted to more neutral tones, Nancy joined the two of them with absurd stories about her uncle Jeremiah and his encounter with an alligator, but Withnail was tired and kept checking the clock.

It was a few minutes before midnight that he announced that he should head home as his lecture started early the following day. He bid his farewells without failing to notice the concern on both of their faces as he walked out of the door with two of Nancy's casseroles in a paper bag, but he dismissed it without much guilt.

The drive home was, quite frankly, a bliss. Empty roads and colourful Christmas lights that accompanied Al Bowlly's songs on the radio and a cigarette that tasted like his last, or first, and for a brief lapse of time that, and his heartache, was all there was to his world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to make Withnail cry, it was one of the parts I looked the most forward to, even if it's in the past so I might have to make him cry again later on. And uhm also some Withnail family reunions that nobody asked for but you're going to have to deal with for a while, I'm afraid. I have to slow the story down in one way or another, right? Next chapter is finally Marwood and you'll have read his thoughts about his divorce. It be like that sometime..........  
> Thank you all for the support and my apologies for being a formatting fiend, I never know what to do with the enter button and I also change my mind on the matter every 5 minutes.


	18. Marwood

When Colleen picked up the phone, her voice was as panicked as it could get. She asked Marwood if he was alright, if there had been an emergency of some sort. After explaining as calmly and guiltily as possible that he was fine and that his only reason for having missed the appointment (it turned out to be only one, thank Christ) was that he had just woken up with a colossal hangover, her tone immediately switched from concerned to righteously furious. Marwood wanted to dig his own grave, crawl in it and receive an improper burial at that point. He couldn't remember pulling anything similar with his agent before this, and he deserved all of Colleen's rage.

Processing Saturday morning had been hard enough for Marwood without worrying about whatever charity event he had just missed. He had woken up with his brain feeling like molten lead and his shoulders tight and sore from sleeping on the couch next to Withnail. What was he, twenty-three? Just how out of his mind had he been? He recalled Withnail's sleeping face, furrowed in a characteristically endearing scowl and his soft snoring before he mentally decided that one more trill of the phone would kill him. Could you die of headache? He wasn't sure.

He hadn't really been thinking when he asked Withnail if he wanted to get lunch with him, but Withnail had been thinking about his answer and it had been yes, so that had been a relief. Marwood had dragged him to a family-run restaurant near Drury Lane whose clientele was mostly actors, himself included, and was probably more known for the privacy of its booths than the variety of dishes. The wine selection was excellent, though, which just proved their awareness of the needs of their patrons.  
Not that both of them had ordered more than a cider (or an ale for Withnail) after what they had drunk the other night. They hardly talked during lunch, but it hadn't been uncomfortable. It was the kind of exhausted silence they had shared thousands of times a lifetime ago after similarly wrecking hangovers, and it had made Marwood smile as he sat in front of Withnail. He had caught him watching and instead of saying anything, Withnail just smiled, so Marwood knew he had been thinking the exact same thing.

They had parted with Marwood saying he would call to keep Withnail updated about the general rehearsals, but he had forgotten to ask Withnail for his phone number. He'd probably need to call the Academy for any update.

There were still a handful of days until Christmas but his schedule was as busy as ever, if not more. Charity events doubled in importance during this time of the year and perhaps it was for the blatant hypocrisy of it that Marwood didn't even try to keep track of them. So on Monday, Colleen had suggested they should meet so she could debrief Marwood day-to-day and he would finally be able to call his own mother and tell her precisely when he was going to visit her.  
They had settled for lunch the following day, and Marwood was two martinis and a cigarette in, sitting at his table lost in the menu without actually reading it. He didn't even notice when Colleen approached his seat and waited for him to take his eyes off the menu before sitting down. Her face seemed vaguely concerned, a mixture of surprise and disapproval.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” she greeted him, clearly referencing Saturday morning, “were you waiting for your girlfriend to dump you to start smoking again?”

Marwood sighed and stubbed his basically untouched cigarette in the ashtray.

“This is just Withnail rubbing off on me,” he said, just then realizing it was the truth. Since he met Withnail again his fingers had started twitching to hold a cigarette between them, and it hadn't happened in years.

Colleen picked up the cigarette from the ashtray and started smoking it herself, giving him a challenging look when he made an amused sound.

“Should I be worried?”

“What? Why would you be?”

“I don't know, Peter... You've been different since you mentioned this Withnail. Don't get too involved in his excesses, alright?”

“Colleen, I've known him for sixteen years, I think I know how to handle him. He's unpredictable, but I believe he has changed too. For the better, I mean. Saturday night was an exception.”

Colleen held his look as if she was trying to detect a lie, but evidently found none, because her face relaxed.

“If you say so. The the two of you are friends now?”

“I guess. Until he changes his mind.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You don't know him, he's an odd fellow. Did I tell you he couldn't stand sight of me when the principal introduced us? It took me a week to have him over at my place and we were flatmates for five years, for Christ's sake. I don't even know why I'm putting up with him again, I must be a masochist,” he concluded, bitterly.

“That you are,” Colleen simply stated, and he smiled at her, even if her face betrayed that she was deep in thought and hers wasn't too much of a joke.

They were interrupted by the teenaged waiter asking if they were ready to place their order, which they were. Marwood had drunk enough already so he switched to a coke, while Colleen ordered gin & tonic with her salad.

“I told him he could bring his class to the general rehearsals of Dollhouse in February,” Marwood interrupted the brief silence after the waiter left.

“That sounds nice, have you mentioned it to Thorpe?”

“No, actually I was hoping you'd do that. I'll talk to the rest of the crew and Talbot if you want.”

“You are aware that you're working at his theatre and can't avoid him forever, yes? You're being childish, Peter,” she scolded him.

“I can't help it! He won't stop grinning whenever I'm around as if he's won something and I don't know where he got the idea that I'm bothered by him being engaged with my ex-wife. I am so tempted to thank him for speeding up the divorce process by being so unsubtle and crass about screwing her,” he said, angrily, “he's the one being childish. I'm just keeping my distance,” he concluded, faking a reason he didn't have and that Colleen certainly didn't believe.

“Right...” Colleen muttered.

Marwood sighed.

“Please?”

“I'll talk to him,” she agreed, resignedly.

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“You owe me hundreds, Peter,” she laughed.

Their lunch arrived shortly after and as usual, Colleen adjourned Marwood on his plans, which consisted in a busy schedule until the morning of the 24th, much to Marwood's glee. Luckily he was free until the 28th, so he could spend three days in his childhood home, eating his mother's cooking and lazing in front of the fireplace, even if he still needed to bring his copy of Dollhouse with him, or else such sweet living, along with eggnog abuse, would make him forget at least half of the play.

He wasn't looking forward for the actual Christmas lunch at his aunt's place, too crowded with his cousin's spouses and children.  
Marwood's mother had wanted the same for his only son. She was clearly proud of him, and she boasted with affection of his accomplishment each month when she went to the hairdresser to get her perm and nails done, she watched his films and television appearances with almost religious devotion, but that didn't distract her from the fact that she hadn't expected for Marwood to become so famous and her concept of happiness, which she had tried to teach to her son, had always included building a family and living a quiet, private life.  
At some point Marwood thought he had wanted the same thing for himself. Celebrity and privacy often didn't go hand in hand, but he was willing to try. He loved acting so deeply that sometimes thinking about it made his heart ache. He could get lost for hours in the intensity the thrill of the stage gave him, but that couldn't be all in life, could it? He remembered the quiet affection his father was reluctant to show even to his own son, but it was there: the small gestures, the tired smiles and his mother's comforting hand on her husband's shoulder. That's what he had been yearning for when he fell fast, hard, and idiotically for Audrey. When you're young as Marwood was when he got married, every girl could be the one. He had been so certain that she was, how could she not? She had looked so dashing in her blue satin dress and her bored expression didn't dull Marwood's attraction to her one bit. Later in their relationship, she had told him that his ''unrefined manners" were what charmed her, who had been so tired of all the flattery that came with being the daughter of a renowned film producer; words that with the divorce translated to "I wanted to get back at my rich father by marrying a long-haired, working-class broke actor".

At his wedding, he had been a nervous wreck. He was happy, disgustingly in love and excited, but he also felt his legs turning to gelatin at the thought of the guest list, the packed hall, the sumptuous flower arrangements. If someone had asked him to picture his wedding a few years prior, he would have answered with certainty that he pictured himself marrying one of those shy but sunny seamstresses or make-up artists that he met while working on a play, and they would have had a small, intimate ceremony with their families and a few friends. Yet, there he had been, and the woman who was slow dancing between his arms to Paul McCartney, half drunk on champagne and the other half on euphoria, was anything but shy, sunny or a seamstress. She was beautiful in her designer dress, her dark hair flowing down her back. Marwood felt as if he was under a spell every time he pulled her closer and made her laugh.  
And a spell it was, as it wore off after two years of Marwood forcing an intimacy she never wanted, of her being standoffish at best and downright venomous at worst. When she realized that Marwood's wild streak had been limited to his past, and found out about his propensity for a more domestic and private life, she quickly ran back to the glamour and excess she had sworn to be bored of. And a marriage of continuous effort on solely Marwood's part had made him so tired that when Audrey deadpanned that she was fucking Henry Thorpe he didn't even have the strength to react. He signed the divorce papers with blind relief.

The most heartbreaking part of it all was telling his parents that it hadn't worked out. He mostly felt ashamed for drifting too far from their example and failing so spectacularly. His mother hadn't even liked Audrey that much, as if she had read her reason for being with her son immediately, but she never said anything about it and for that Marwood was glad.  
Initially, he had resented Audrey. Sometimes he still felt it when he thought about how she had wanted the press to catalogue each passage of their relationship, especially its last months. The constant presence of journalists and photographers when the bureaucratic practices were about to finalized had felt more invasive than the image of that Thorpe bastard in bed with his wife. But feelings were a matter of weeks for her, and she soon expressed her intention of keeping a, if not friendly, at least civil relationship, as they both worked in the same environment and were likely to see plenty of each other in their respective futures.

Audrey had shifted something in him. She made him think about what he truly wanted, and it wasn't what she had given him, but it wasn't what he had taught himself to want, either. Marwood's feelings on the matter where akin to what he felt about religion. The fascination of a boy who was raised with set examples but growing up he realized they fit tight on him, they were the embodiment of the normalcy he was supposed to find comfort in, but instead made him feel like a fraud for his lack of conviction in them.

And then he thought about what Colleen and Laura had. The few times he had been invited for dinner or more work-related activities, he had seen the way his agent's rigid posture relaxed immediately at the sight of her partner, the studied affection they had shown him almost involuntary left him with his heart sinking. He should have thought it was wrong, immoral, but he was an actor, for fuck's sake. Even those without any tendencies grew unfazed by it at some point. It was either that or holding a senseless hatred for roughly half of the people involved in the sector. What good could it bring? Plus, how could he, after seeing the raw love in the gentle touches and seemingly insignificant attentions? It hurt, because people who had what he was craving for couldn't hold hands in public yet no one had had any qualms at him flaunting his wrecked marriage around. It was cruel.

“Where did I lose you?” Colleen's voice brought him back to the present.

“Uh?” he said stupidly, ”I'm sorry, my mind started wandering. I really ought to get some sleep.”

“Mmh, yeah, and you need to drink less. You know what I've been thinking?”

“No. What have you been thinking?”

“That maybe you do need a friend, you've been weirdly quiet each time we met this month,” she observed with apprehension.

“I'm fine, Colleen. I've just been busy. I've also discovered that teaching is quite draining.”

“Oh, Peter. I'm not worried. Yet. But I'm glad you're making an effort with Withnail,” she smiled.

“I don't feel like I'm doing that, to be perfectly honest,” he grimaced.

“Nonsense, from what I've heard of the man you seem to have made progress, haven't you?”

“My thoughts on the matter aren't exactly impartial. I... fuck, I don't know. I don't want to think about it right now.”

Colleen huffed, rolling her eyes.

“You should get him something for Christmas,” she suggested then.

Marwood barked out a short laugh. It seemed like a stupid idea, then he thought of something.

“You know what? Yeah, I probably should,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year, new formatting! It took me an evening. I'm an idiot. Marwood is still clueless about his feelings, I wish I could have Colleen smack him. Also I drew basically all the characters I made up and even those I didn't (so just Withnail and Marwood). Maybe one day you'll see them. Thanks for the support, happy new year and all that shit.


	19. Withnail

The Saturday before Christmas, as if on clue, snow started falling heavily, and fat, feather-like flakes had already piled up to a generous five inches when Withnail woke up late. He started his day by lazily grading his students' work in front of the fireplace, with Charles on his lap and no intention of setting even the tip of his nose outside, not even for a cigarette. It was almost lunchtime and he was starting to wonder if there was anything in his fridge that could turn into a decent meal in under five minutes when the doorbell rang. Charles was startled at the sound and jumped off, and Withnail rose from the couch to see who it was. He didn't recognize the man through the spyhole. He was wearing work clothes underneath two scarves and a wool cap and was holding an expensive-looking box under his arm. Perplexed and curious, Withnail opened the door, tucking his bare hands under his armpits and hunching for the cold, scowling as always at the interruption.

 "Mr. Vivian Withnail?" The man asked, not looking up from the clipboard he was reading from.

 "That would be me, yes," Withnail replied, still confused.

 "If you could please leave your signature here, sir," the man handed him a pen and the clipboard.

 Withnail complied, eager to discover the contents of the box and the sender, and to get back in front of the damned fireplace.

 "Who is this from?" he asked, not wanting to wait.

 "No clue," the delivery man shrugged, and handed him the package in exchange for the signed clipboard, "there's a card.”

 "Oh."

 "Well, have a good day, sir." The man said, tipping his hat and turning on his heels.

 "You too," Withnail muttered, lost in his own thoughts, not sure of having been heard.

 

He stepped back and closed the door behind him. As much as he had wanted to rip the paper off the package as soon as he understood it was for him, he now took his time to observe it carefully from where it stood on the coffee table. The box was wrapped in thick, grainy paper, with a burgundy red bow around it and a cream-coloured envelope tucked underneath it.

 "What the fuck?" he said to no in particular, maybe Charles.

 He took out the envelope and tore off the paper. The folded sheet had the same filigree as the envelope. A classy set, without doubt. The letter said:

 

 

> _Dear Withnail,_
> 
>  
> 
> _This will probably arrive a bit sooner than its intended date, but I take this occasion to wish you a merry Christmas nonetheless. If nothing has changed, I assume you'll be spending it away from your family. I sincerely hope it's not lonely. In any case, in my brief stay with my mother you'll be in my thoughts. I have discussed with Talbot and the rest of the crew about you bringing your class to the general rehearsals in a few months and my proposal has been met with enthusiasm. I left the far more burdensome_ _issue of convincing the theatre director to my agent's persuasive words. I await a response from you on the matter too._
> 
> _I don't expect anything from you for Christmas so please don't feel inadequate if you haven't got me a gift (though I doubt you will). What would please me the most would be you agreeing on us seeing each other again, soon, for a couple of drinks, whenever you feel like it. I'm leaving you my contact hoping you'll call to make an arrangement._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Peter Marwood_
> 
>  
> 
> _P.S. I'd hate to threaten you in a greeting card, but I do have my ways to get in contact with you. I'd like to think these two weeks meant something to you too, so I'll be waiting._
> 
>  

Withnail's eyebrows had furrowed from a mild scowl to a full-blown confused frown by the time he reaches the post scriptum. Simply, what the fuck? Withnail hadn't received a Christmas gift that wasn't a bottle of Sherry wrapped in one of Nancy's knitted scarves in at least a couple of years. Whatever the box's contents were, Withnail had every reason to be a bit shaken by the event. Of course, he wouldn't have been so taken aback if the sender had been someone else. All that Marwood wanted in exchange was... a phone call, apparently? It made no damn sense at all. And what was all that meaning bollocks? He wasn't the one with issues about their... friendship (is that what he's supposed to call it?) having meaning. It was quite the opposite, in fact.

But what bothered Withnail the most, so much that he couldn't even deny it to himself, was that fucking yours written in Marwood's familiar scratchy, pointy handwriting. What a liar, he thought. Marwood decidedly wasn't his. Such a terrible word to bring closure to a letter.

 In the meantime Charles had decided that the doorbell wasn't a good enough deterrent to keep him away from the warmth of his owner's legs and the fireplace, and was currently rubbing himself on the newest addition to the coffee table. Withnail shooed him off so he could open the package, slowly, careful not to tear the wrapping paper. It revealed a wine crate in pinewood, sanded so smooth that the cover slid off gently and without noise. Inside, aside from the straw keeping the bottle in place and the actual bottle, there was a single rectangle of paper printed with a tiny font that Withnail didn't need glasses to read to understand that it was a theatre ticket. He put the glasses on just to be sure, and it read a parterre seat for the Dollhouse première. Withnail sighed, and rubbed his eyes as he took off the glasses. Not only he would have assisted to the rehearsals, but now he had a ticket for the première too. Fantastic, exactly what he wanted to avoid. He discarded the ticket to take a better look at the bottle, which was previously hidden by the ticket and the straw, and he almost dropped it. He put it back in the crate to avoid any accidents.

The label read _Château Margaux, appellation controllée_ , and the vintage year: _1953_.

 It had to be some kind of sick joke. It had to be. What was Marwood thinking? Aside from the fact that it must have been a two hundred quid bottle, just what in the name of God was Marwood doing? Was he mocking him? That bottle with the ticket for his play sounded every bit of a mockery to Withnail. But it couldn't be, it didn't make any sense. He knew Marwood could have a vicious streak to him when necessary, but this would have been downright cruel if Marwood had known the implications and Withnail made sure that didn't happen. Plus, Marwood was expecting a phone call. He had given him a Christmas present, for Christ's sake. However much he wanted to break the bottle in his face, Withnail had to admit that thinking ill of Marwood's gesture would have been nothing short of idiotic.

Rationality didn't really help him feeling less like he had swallowed his own heart. Maybe Marwood thought it was an appropriate gift, but it wasn't, or otherwise Withnail wouldn't have felt like he was sopping wet by the wolves' cage drunkenly trying to remember Hamlet's lines again. Marwood didn't know. He had no clue. It was just a wine bottle.

 

Withnail wished Marwood could know about the tightness in his chest without knowing anything else. Just to have him understand, for once, that he ached; that he was perfectly aware of his wrongdoings and that sometimes he was torn between blaming himself or picturing himself as only a victim of unfortunate circumstances and times and that neither of those options had ever given him peace. He wished Marwood knew that he would have fixed it all if he could, damn him, but on his own impossible, unspeakable terms. He wished Marwood knew he was sorry, after all, but that also his guilt had been hidden to drive Marwood away. What other reason could he have had, to push every boundary as viciously as possible until the fair-haired, nervous and inexperienced boy that Marwood hadn't been for some years packed his suitcase and fucking left, finally, like he was always supposed to do? When he disappeared in the rain Withnail wanted to yell at Marwood's back that he had known he was a bastard all along! To leave him like that, soaking, cold, drunk, and weeping! As if that hadn't been his doing. Withnail just needed to hate him. He had given Marwood a reason to leave so he could hate him, so he could stop feeling like there was something burning cold, liquid nitrogen inside his ribcage every time he looked at the other man.

He wanted to tell Marwood he couldn't accept his gifts. He wanted to call Marwood and say I'm sorry, I can't, hoping it would be enough even if it hardly covered it. He wanted to stop thinking and have a bloody drink. He wanted. That was the problem. He could recognize the creeping, never ending thoughts he had tried in any way to avoid, suppress, forget.

He covered his face with his hands and exhaled, getting up and fixing himself a generous rum from the cabinet and swallowing it in two gulps. What to do now, with the bottle and the ticket? He could drink the wine, but how could he refuse the ticket? It was just one too, as if Marwood wanted to say that he wanted him there, that he would know where to look for Withnail's face in the crowd, when he was waiting to enter the scene behind the curtain, one of the few moments when he wasn't blinded by the stage lights that reverberated on the front rows of the parterre. Wishful thinking, that's what it was.

He didn't want to go, but at the same time he was so frustratingly curious to see if the onstage Marwood he remembered resembled this one, playing family men and no longer ingenuous soldiers or immaculate, Shakespearean youths soon to meet their fate. Not that he hadn't played his roles well, but just as Withnail was sure that he had changed, Marwood had too. He wanted to see how, and how much, his performance was influenced by that. Call it professional curiosity.

 

The only thing he was sure about was that Marwood would have had to wait for the phone call. Aside from the not-quite-threat in the post scriptum, they were bound to see each other again in February, and being a scholastic matter too, Withnail saw no way, or reason, to avoid it. It's just that he didn't want to call before Christmas and trigger unpleasant inquiries about his plans for the holidays. Marwood left him a card with his and his agent's address and phone number. Perhaps Withnail would send a greeting card along to placate Marwood and wait until past New Year's Eve to call and make plans. That seemed ideal.

 

He poured himself another glass and decided he was done grading for the day. He wasn't nearly drunk enough when, looking back at the bottle resting in its crate, realized that maybe a part of him had never stopped being in love with Peter Marwood.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIthnail no...................  
> It'll get worse before it gets better, I'm sorry. This being said I'll listen to Blues For The Red Sun for the 21938274th time this month and slowly advance. Very slowly. Come find me on tungle I'm bored!


	20. Marwood

 

Marwood almost crashed his Jaguar into a tree on his way back to London. He had spent three days in a food coma on the couch, trying to make his lines reach the brain without much success, and he felt so relaxed from the repetitiveness of the scenery outside the windshield and the soft hum of the engine that he very nearly fell asleep with his face on the steering wheel.

 His mother had sounded disappointed when Marwood phoned her and told her that Dottie wouldn't be coming. When the two had met that summer it had been obvious that his mother liked her more than Audrey. She had given Marwood that wry, private smile of complicity they used to share and he kind of felt frozen when he realized his mother thought that Dottie was the woman of his life.

He had never had trouble speaking with his mother, unlike his father. His father wasn't the most emotionally open man around, but Marwood couldn't remember a single time he had been told to back off while he was working, or reading his manuals, or sketching one of his projects. He didn't hug much, but he had liked playing football in the stamp-sized backyard with his son. Marwood discovered later in his teen years, when all boys start to analyse their condition, that his parents were a fairly balanced pair, and he loved them, but somehow they had managed to raise a quite odd son.

 

His mother liked Edwardian poetry, the Brontë sisters in winter and Agatha Christie in summer. By the time he was fourteen Marwood had started to grow a mangy beard that he shaved compulsively, and he had read every single book in the house, minus the kitchen manuals. The summer when his mother read Death on the Nile for the third time, not wanting to imitate her, he discovered the joy of having a library card. He picked whatever sounded familiar, which meant a lot of Shakespeare and Dickens. His mother's eyes lit up when she saw the collection of sonnets he had chosen at the library and she brought him to their bedroom in excited secrecy, where she took out a shoebox from the depths of their closet. It contained a stack of letters, all made with different types of paper. Before she could even say anything, he knew it was his parents' correspondence during the war. She picked out a few for him to read, and Marwood had never wanted to read the others. They had been so young when they wrote the letters, not much older than Marwood had been then, so he felt that reading more than his mother had wanted him to would have been like stumbling upon a couple necking in a corner. After reading them once, twice, some even thrice, he handed them back to his mother, thanking her. He hadn't known what else to say, too surprised to read overly familiar sonnets in his father's handwriting. But his mother stroked his cheek and looked at him with an expression that would have made any regular fourteen year old flinch back in embarrassment and told him that he didn't know how much like his father Marwood was, that he should have known him before the war, before the interminable silences and the hollow eyes he seemed to get sometimes while he sat alone on the porch and finished half a packet of cigarettes in a couple of hours.

 He wondered if his mother would tell him the same if she were to give him those letters now, if she would say those words with the same tears catching on her pale lashes. He would have traded his own fame and career for his father's mutism a hundred times if it meant he could be the kind of man who hadn't hesitated a second to marry his sweetheart on a lucky day of godsent leave when she wrote, two weeks previous, desperate and shaky, that she was pregnant, and then marry her again when the war was over, in a church, because she deserved that, with his uniform starch-stiff and posture rigid as the fabric for the excitement, because even without the rush of love that only men killing each other for another man's war could provide, Grace and Rupert Marwood had been made for each other, and there hadn't been much to argue about that.

He had wanted to ask his mother if he still looked like his father when he had been tripping on acid and making no sense, and once again when he stole a car radio, or when he had told that stuff about Withnail and he to Monty back in Penrith. When he didn't let Withnail walk him to the station. When he was drunk and hadn't minded his equally drunk male co-star kissing him, or when he had called Audrey a bitch and drove off drunk God knew where, in the middle of the night.

 He had stopped wanting a real answer when they buried his father in the summer of '73, when not even years of academic training in the sacred art of faking your own emotions helped him from holding onto his mother and crying like a little boy, while she stood stark and grieving like a statue. Marwood always thought that one of the main problems of being an actor was that you were taught how to fabricate feelings where there were none, but not the other way around.

 

If his mother didn't want to doubt her son's integrity, then he wouldn't have given her suggestions on how to do the contrary. He had known he wouldn’t turn out to be a mechanic since he was twelve, and from there the gap between who he was becoming and who his father had been just grew wider.

But he hadn't been upset by that back in high school, each year more invested in extracurricular drama clubs, working part time as a projectionist at the local cinema or selling tickets for whatever unlucky b-league company had decided to stage their period drama in their shitty little town's theatre, where on a good day half of the stage lights worked, and on a bad day they didn't work at all and Marwood was always the one sent to beg the preacher to lend him something, anything, to light up the stage.

 

Slowly, before he could pinpoint a precise moment, sons started not to care much about becoming like their fathers anymore, so why should he? Boys were letting their hair hang long on their shoulders and he had always hated how his curls, cropped short and neat still never managed to stay in place anyway, so why shouldn't he grow his hair, too?

In the summer of '62, for his eighteenth birthday and as a prize for finishing high school with excellent marks in literature and history and perfectly mediocre in algebra, his father helped him fix a rusty excuse for a '49 Anglia that had been green once, and he had to ask his mother to show him how to tie his hair in a knot so he didn't have to spend two days washing the oil and sanding dust out of his hair at the end of the day.

That same summer Marwood loved like a boy thinks a man loves like for the first time, in the backseat of his new car, with a classmate of his he had been carrying a torch for quite a while, actually; and he got his first serious acting gig by one of those b-league companies passing by, whose youngest member had ran off in pursue of a better pay, or so they had told him when they offered him the job.

 

He had been out of it when he asked his mother if he could take their offer, because it would have meant that he would have left with company the following week if he accepted, but his father had needed help at the garage too. Despite dreading the second option, he hadn't had it in him not to say anything about starting to act professionally. His parents didn't deserve a runaway son. His mother's face was twisted, apprehensive when he told her his options, but his father had just said "Fucking hell, just let 'im go, Grace. He’s already decided and so have you, years ago," then he sat up and went outside and smoked just a quarter of his pack of cigarettes instead of his usual half. To this day, Marwood still thought that it was the most eloquent he had ever seen his father. Maybe, he had decided years ago, too.

 

The two months left until the end of the summer, he spent mostly on the road. His co-stars had been a varied bunch, but nothing too wildly hedonistic to worry his parents when he sent them the occasional briefly commented postcard from wherever he was staying. During the second of the three shows scheduled in London, he had been unofficially scouted by an extremely peculiar, minute, and decrepit old man that Marwood had some difficulty in believing had been a teacher at RADA. When the man told him that auditions where in less than a month he thought that, for lack of better ideas, he would give it a shot. Looking back, he could easily admit that his nonchalance about the matter was only apparent.

 Marwood believed in a half-arsed God built on habit, but when they took him at RADA, his faith strengthened enough to believe in that miracle. When he told his parents, they had sounded cautiously proud, and when he left, even if he would be back in a matter of weeks for a visit, his mother cried and his father patted him on the back. There had been the world to look forward to, in London.

 

The world he had looked forward to had included an abnormally tall, lanky, and venomous boy (or man? Marwood swore that he couldn't have been younger than twenty five, with those lines already furrowing his quite impressive forehead) that sounded and dressed like he had been dragged away (unwillingly) from a long evening of high-society mundane events. He attended some of Marwood's same classes, although sporadically, and the only interventions during the lessons he heard from him for the first two weeks were either annoyed scoffs or exaggerated yawns.

The boy's name seemed elusive to his ears, so one day he asked a senior student that was casually smoking a cigarette with a group that Marwood had decided to affiliate himself with for the time being. "Oh, that's just Withnail. Why, did you catch him stealing your cigarettes? He does that. Swear, he even steals the teachers'. As if he's broke, the bastard." was the bitter reply. Marwood hadn't known what to say, but he inexplicably felt like he should have paid attention to this Withnail. He had taken to observing him, but this boy acted above human interest, and nothing suggested that he was even aware of Marwood's existence. Why should have he been?

 The fact that Marwood was proven wrong with time was just further proof of Withnail's unpredictability. The first years spent as Withnail's friend had been the most fun of his life, Marwood thought. He felt lonely enough to forget that it all had gone to shit. It seemed as if Marwood couldn't stop thinking about Withnail, even more now that they didn't see each other every day. He felt like he had to have a second reason to reach out to his friend so insistently, but even searching for it, torturing himself mentally to find a reason why he would want Withnail in his life again that was justifiably emotionally detached, he found nothing. Marwood was just a lonely bastard and he missed him. He missed Withnail like he'd miss a cut inside his cheek to pick at and draw blood from. He had hoped that Withnail would call him as soon as he received his gift, but had no illusions of that happening. It was hard to be patient, but Colleen had called him two days previously to inform him that Thorpe thought that having students attend rehearsals was a magnificent idea, even if Marwood was firmly convinced his eagerness was pure appearance. Well, as long as the result was the one desired, he wasn't going to let himself be bothered about whatever that pompous prick was hiding; he wanted to pass the good news along to Withnail immediately.

 

When the road signs started to indicate that he was approaching London, Marwood decided that if by New Year's Eve Withnail hadn’t contacted him, he would deal with the matter himself, even if that meant a breach of Withnail's ill-kept privacy. He couldn't let him make all the decisions. As a sealant to that, he turned the radio to a rock station, and lit up a cigarette.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not advancing much, here's some speculation about Marwood's teen years that no one asked for. I mean, I gave you almost two full chapters of Withnail sad backstory and now it's Marwood's turn, a little less sad, a little less gay, but not too much.
> 
> Got questions? Doubts? Suggestions? Tips? Anything? Well, the comments section is, hear hear, open. And so is my askbox on tumblr. Just saying.


	21. Withnail

With absolutely no significant shift in his condition since his teenage years and exactly as he had predicted, Withnail spent the holidays by himself, seemingly unaffected by the loneliness. He grudgingly agreed to visit his brother on the 26th as he was really in need of the knitted scarf and bottle of liquor awaiting for him. Edmund had previously suggested that for once they could spend some time at his place, but Withnail didn't even have to glance around the house to know the disappointment it would bring upon his niece and nephew to see the outspoken lack of care about Christmas shown so clearly by his desolate living room. In the right setting, Withnail still had enough acting skills in him to fake some cheer, but his house wasn't that.

Aside from getting drunk enough to make the boring days pass in a brief haze, he went to the cinema a few evenings, watched _All That Jazz_ twice, and pondered if he should spend New Year's Eve doing exactly that for the third time.

After a brief evaluation of his other options, which were non-existent unless he counted a colleague's pity invite at some "intimate party" that was code for half a dozen boring couples and not enough alcohol, he realized that the cinema was, in all honesty, his best option.

When he exited the screen it was already past midnight and he had drunk most of a bottle of bourbon. At least the cinema was within walking distance. A chill, easily blamed on the liquor, crept up his back and Withnail wrapped his coat tighter around himself and pulled his scarf so it was covering his nose and ears.

The streets weren't as full as they had been when he left the house, but they were still echoing with drunken, euphoric howls and hissing followed by sharp cracks and bursts of coloured lights in the distance. Sometimes Withnail would pass an establishment and hear the muffled music vibrating within him, but a few steps and it was gone. A giggling, swaying couple passed him by, glued to one another, perhaps to keep out the cold, bringing with them the smell of french perfume, wine and sulphur. Withnail found himself wondering if they had known each other before tonight, or if they walked the streets hand in hand when they weren't intoxicated beyond the threshold of judgement.

He heard the sound of a bottle being broken in a nearby alley, followed by wild whoops and a raucous laugh, and a bright-haired boy in a studded jacket and heavy boots ran towards the street followed by his friend, who tackled him and hooked his arm around his neck and before his friend could drag him in the opposite direction, he looked at Withnail with wide, fiery eyes and grinned, challenging, rebellious, for a couple of seconds. Never breaking contact, they proceeded, unstable, sharing a cheap-looking bottle of clear liquor until they were out of sight. Withnail let the sight ache for a while until his house was near.

It took him a solid five minutes to open the door, and when he finally did, the warmth from his house made his skin flush immediately and the tip of his fingers burn uncomfortably. Withnail wasn't drunk to the point where he would idiotically go to bed with a whole bottle of bourbon in him.

He just sat uselessly in the kitchen for a while, smoking and thinking about too many things at once that were all too fuzzy and were all too connected to Marwood. After a few minutes Charles joined him, tentative and alert, probably spooked by the fireworks. Withnail didn't feel like he could have been much a reassurance, not even for a cat, at the moment.

At 1.24 a.m., the phone rang. Withnail was slumping on his own arm, but jolted upright immediately at the sound, then calmed down. It wasn't unusual for his brother to call him when he and Nancy returned from the party with Edmund's colleagues to uselessly wish him a happy new year. Withnail didn't like it, so the previous year he had wandered around Primrose Hill until the crack of dawn to avoid the phone call. But he was home now, and he felt drunkenly guilty.

"Hello?" he slurred, unintelligible.

"Withnail?" Marwood's voice yelled from the other side, muffled by the chaos of celebration.

"Marwood," he replied, stupidly, as he sobered as much as possible in a fraction of second. It wasn't much.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you well," Marwood said, as someone passed near the phone and laughed. "How was your New Year's Eve?"

Withnail opened his mouth, frowned and closed it, confused by Marwood's words, on this precise day and hour, while a party was clearly taking place behind his back.

"It was fine," he said finally, without trying to hide his perplexity. "Yours?"

"Well, here they're just getting started, perhaps I'll update you in three hours time?" Marwood laughed, not without nervousness.

"Christ, what have they done to you?" He joked weakly.

"Please, don't twist the knife, I'm currently on my third coffee today."

"I'm amazed you're able to hold the receiver..."

"Well, I have an assistant for a reason,"

"I wasn't aware you had an assistant."

"As a matter of fact, I don't, Withnail. I was joking."

A pause.

"You didn't call." Marwood said at last. It wasn't a question on why, and it stung more.

"I was planning to. I figured you'd be busy." Withnail retorted coldly.

There was a hum in dubious acknowledgement by Marwood, then: "Did you like the wine?"

Withnail swallowed nervously, infinitely glad he was on the phone.

"Marwood, why on Earth did you even get me a fucking gift," he whined, and the other man laughed, briefly. "I haven't drunk it yet. But thank you, I suppose."

"Don't mention it. I hope you're not drinking it tonight, you already sound quite arseholed."

"That would be because I am," Withnail bit back easily. Marwood snorted, although it was barely audible. "The night's still young!" he continued without enthusiasm.

"Right, well," Marwood started, but was cut off by someone calling his name, pleading. "I... I think I'll call when we're both sober again, so we can talk seriously about the rehearsals issue."

He sounded a bit dejected, and Withnail felt as if he was responsible for that, so before he could think about it too much, he blurted out: "I was going to call, really."

"It's ok, Withnail," Marwood replied, calmly. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Marwood."

 

The receiver had never been so heavy to hang up as it was then.

Withnail felt a bit like sobbing, but the same heavy and cold anger he had felt towards Marwood upon seeing him at the start of the month crept up and tightened his chest to the point where it felt odd to breathe. He had felt so light a few minutes ago, so drunk and without any deep thoughts or memories scattered around his head doing more harm than good. He knew his actions weren't so deplorable and that Marwood probably didn't think much of him delaying a phone call he didn't even agree to make, but that wasn't the reason for the dread pervading him in that moment. No, it was the way his heart had leapt when he heard it was Marwood on the other end of the line, the way he wanted to make sure Marwood knew he had wanted to call him. He felt like an idiot, acting this way when a few years ago all he could do was drive him away. Yet he couldn't help it, the figurative crawling back to Marwood who, in all his genuine and oblivious glory, didn't have the faintest fucking idea and probably thought Withnail was acting like the damn lunatic he always suspected him to be.

Meekly following the pull of his destructive instincts, Withnail retrieved the Margaux bottle from the rack and this time he thought appropriate to use a glass. He was a drunk, but a refined one all right, and if he felt like finishing Marwood's gift on his own, the first day of a shiny, brand new decade, then he would do it properly.

Withnail would have loved to say that the taste was hauntingly familiar, that it brought back memories, even painful ones, but it simply tasted like a hundred quid wine. Which was quite fucking great, but alas, mere wine. If it tasted like anything lost (and it didn't), that was on him. So he kept drinking.

In a particularly melodramatic train of thought, he thought about how could he, probably the most miserable bastard in the entirety of the British Isles, be denied Marwood's friendship. Or, better, how could he deny it to himself, but his treacherous and unwanted feelings were creeping up on him at his most weak. Wasn't it enough that he had him back? How could he fantasize of something more - how dare he? Marwood had been kind enough to forget how he had treated him and this was how he repaid him, by wanting him? How unfair of him, to subject his friend once again to his fruitless attempts to keep his inconvenient feelings at bay. God knew if it hadn't brought out the worst of him in the past.

Withnail felt the bile burning his stomach and his own mind recoiling from his surprising honesty with himself. He had been nursing the wine bottle in front of the fireplace for quite a some time now and it was almost finished. His cheeks felt impossibly hot and his eyes burnt so painfully that not even closing them brought any relief. He glanced desperately at the bottle once again, and maybe he was inebriated beyond sanity but he could swear that the tannic dregs tasted faintly of heavy, alkaline autumn rain and tears that had stung too much to keep inside, but were worthy of being seen only by wolves and indifferent passerbies who dismissed them as raindrops.

The bottle had followed him home that evening. It was the last drink of the hundred they had shared, the last bottle to which Marwood had pressed his lips and come off stained and red like berries under spirit, tortured by nervous biting. It was the childish thought of a lovesick drunkard, recklessly innocent for a man like him.

With a gesture too quick for his state, Withnail threw the bottle in the dying fire, which shattered and made the embers sizzle loudly before extinguishing definitely and leaving him in his dark and cold-toned living room, painfully awake.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky punk propaganda as always....  
> Also I love All That Jazz! If you haven't seen it do that asap, it's extremely worth it.  
> A song to go with this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCEx-7R_QY8


	22. Marwood

Marwood felt fastidiously guilty about calling Withnail in the middle of the night on New Year's Day. Did he have so little faith in the man that he couldn't wait at least until noon? He could probably answer negatively after Withnail's words on the phone, which had sounded worryingly sincere. Perhaps he had been imagining it. After all, he had teased his friend about his inebriated status when he wasn't that sober himself, another reason why he thought the phone call couldn't wait a second more, so who could say with certainty whether Withnail's statement had been truthful if not the man himself, who happened to be a compulsive liar?

It was of little matter now, as he was headed towards the Academy to meet with him. Withnail had called him on Wednesday with wise timing, late in the evening, which allowed Marwood to pick up the phone after the second trill. They could have easily arranged the whole deal about the rehearsals on the phone, after all he didn't really have the power to change the date, so the details were up to Withnail, and again, he could have solved these by himself and simply communicated them to Marwood, but he had pretended that wasn't an option and had used the whole deal in his favour, as an excuse to meet up with his elusive friend.

Although, it was nothing they had agreed on. At least, not precisely. Yes, they had agreed for a drink, but Marwood's schedule was chaotic and they hadn't set a precise day or time. Still, he could count on the fact that Withnail's routine was surprisingly regular, so he knew where to find him.

 

Fate had wanted his interview to be rescheduled to the following week, so as soon as he terminated an atrocious combo of script reading and costume fitting for an upcoming television role, he just had enough time to drop by his apartment, eat something and pray that Withnail wouldn't have him lynched on the spot when he appeared in his class without warning.

He was currently trying to park his Jaguar in an impossibly narrow spot on the street in front of the Academy, feeling oddly on edge, almost nervous. He looked at himself on the rearview mirror, checked his bags for the two copies of Dollhouse and the passes for the theatre, and made his way into the building.

During his stay in his childhood home, Marwood had entertained the idea that Withnail could help him with some scenes he still wasn't certain of, despite having gone through them hundreds of times by now. A few months ago, when Dottie was still his girlfriend, he had asked her to fill in for the rest of the characters as he practised his role. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that each time they saw each other late in the evening, both tired from work, but at the time he hadn't registered Dottie's sighs as exasperated and angry when he handed her the play. Thinking about it, he had behaved almost manically about rehearsing with her, involuntarily dismissing her frustration with him for his own gain. The little moments he could spend with Dottie, he had spent while pretending to be another man. No wonder she broke up with him.

It was just a whim of his, a matter of intonation and which word would sound better when stressed, and after all, Withnail was a acting coach. It couldn't hurt to ask. Or maybe it could, because this was Withnail and that's why Marwood was so fucking nervous, for all he knew he could be overstepping some sacred boundary imposed by the other man that would put an end to it all.

 

When he opened the creaking doors, the old lady sitting behind the front desk lazily eyed him from behind her crossword puzzle, but her gaze quickly turned surprised as she recognized him. Marwood smiled nervously. When she said nothing, he approached the hallway, pointing at it.

"I'm just gonna... Withnail is in the theatre, right?" He asked.

"I think he is, sir. Lessons end in ten minutes, if you prefer you could wait in the teachers' room?" She replied.

"That's alright, I'm sure he won't mind the intrusion," he lied.

The woman eyed him for another couple of seconds before returning to her puzzle, and he made his way to the theatre. He thought about knocking, but he could hear someone reciting lines, so he tried a sneakier approach.

 

Honestly, he should have known it would be useless. The majority of the class, and Withnail, had their backs turned to him, facing the stage. He admired the strength of the student halfway through a line to look at him and finish it, but the two girls on the stage had already shifted their attention. The boy cleared his throat, and stopped.

"Someone feed him the line already! Did you fall asleep on your feet? What are you, horses?" Said Withnail after a few seconds of silence.

"But I do remember the line, sir," the boy defended himself. "I, uhm-"

"Sorry for the interruption," Marwood chimed in, raising his voice from several feet from the stage, in an attempt to lift the blame from the student. "Carry on, please, you were doing fine." He encouraged.

At that, Withnail turned his back to him so rapidly that Marwood hoped his spine was alright.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He blurted out.

 

Marwood grinned at the scandalised look the students gave their teacher, and gestured to Withnail that this was a conversation for later. He sat a few rows behind the class, hoping to appear relaxed. Withnail kept eyeing him suspiciously, but after a moment he sighed. The rest of the class, however, was still unsubtly giving him curious glances.

"Go on, Mr. Wong," Withnail exhaled flatly.

Wong cleared his voice and resumed his part, sounding significantly more insecure. Marwood felt responsible for that.

 

The scene was over in a matter of minutes, and as Withnail was making his observations about the students' performances, Marwood found himself listening attentively. Despite the stinging remarks he made while the students were on stage, his final comments were notably constructive and useful, perhaps even excessively detailed. Sitting there, in the same theatre he had sat in as a student fifteen years ago, Marwood was thrown back in time, a strangely intimate sensation considering the coach wasn't an astonishingly tall and stern Scotsman with bushy eyebrows that appeared to have a consciousness of their own, but the same man that used to sit next to him and abandon himself to a deep slumber.

He had caught glimpses of Withnail's teaching method before, but never like this, and he didn't feel exactly comfortable. If he offered Withnail a chance to have a say on his presence, he surely wouldn't accept it for fear of exposing himself too much, as it was clear that he made an effort to be an exemplary coach. Marwood even dared to think that Withnail could actually love his occupation. Uneasiness aside, Marwood felt an odd sense of satisfaction in being able to witness Withnail in what now seemed to be his natural habitat, with no possibility for his friend to escape his fond scrutiny.

The final bell rang and the students started leaving the theatre following Marwood with their eyes, the more daring wished him a pleasant evening.

 

"So, what are you doing here, Marwood?" Asked Withnail once the pupils were all gone.

Marwood rose from his chair and paced casually towards friend, who was intent in neatening a stack of papers.

"It's good to see you too, Withnail. Yes, I'm doing well, how thoughtful of you to ask," he replied sarcastically, expecting nothing but a sigh in return.

Withnail looked at him with mild disgust from behind his glasses. It made Marwood smile involuntarily.

"My plans were cancelled and I thought I would drop by. The passes are ready," he replied seriously at last.

"Oh, excellent. So you do have a purpose here." Withnail said.

"Of course I do."

 

Marwood let silence fall as he took out the theatre passes and handed them to Withnail, who struggled to make them fit in his overflowing leather bag.

"Say, when does this place close down?" Marwood inquired with what hoped sounded like nonchalance.

Withnail glanced briefly at the clock before replying: "In an hour or so."

"Mmmh."

"What. You've got something on your mind and it's extremely unsettling, I'm telling you." Withnail said, crossing his arms and assuming a position that could have been described as authoritative by a student. But Marwood just perceived a button to push.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you..." He started with a wry smile, hoping to raise his friend's curiosity instead of putting him on alert.

"No."

"You don't even know what this is about!"

"I don't need to. I'm not some kind of mystery for you to discern, Marwood. I'm simply trying to live my fucking life." Withnail sighed.

 

Marwood couldn't help but feel hurt by Withnail immediately putting up his defences at such a question. He had at least hoped he was starting to feel more comfortable around him, but apparently it wasn't the case.

 

He shook his head. "Withnail, you misunderstand... I - I got that. I'm not an idiot and I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. Would you please stop interpreting anything that I ask you as a threat? I thought we were past that."

His friend paused for a few seconds to consider his words, and when he said nothing but his expression relaxed, Marwood continued:

"I need your help with a role."

" _My help?_ Really, Marwood, I-"

"I've got the whole part memorized-" he interrupted without thinking, "-more or less. But I would like to go over it with you. If you don't mind, of course. I'm not sure on how to deliver a few lines and what words I should stress... Just details, really. Powell- the director, that is- is more focused on Nora and she said she trusts my judgement on this, so I'm left to my own devices here. Not that I mind some artistic freedom, mind you, but... " he halted, nervous.

He looked at Withnail, who had switched his wary expression to a more dumbfounded one. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering why that conversation felt like auditioning for the first time, then he changed his expression, hoping to convey a tired, submissive sincerity.

“I've been studying the part for months and it never feels right, as if I'm doing something wrong, but I can't tell what it is. Please, Withnail. I'm sick of doing this alone, I'm going nowhere and it's boring. It's not supposed to feel like this."

"Could it be? The Great Peter Marwood coming all the way to the Royal Academy to pick up the pieces of his crumbling career? Is this what the future holds for him?" Withnail said with a smug amusement. But Marwood was used to the very Withnailian technique of deflecting emotional words with equally venomous ones.

"Shut up, bastard." He replied without bite.

"If it's just a few lines and details as you say, I might even consider a friendly price for my services," Withnail grinned.

"Oh, fuck off!" Marwood laughed, feeling lighter. "Does the kind professor accept wine as a payment method?"

"Indeed he does!"

 

They looked at each other with complicity for a couple of seconds, and Marwood hoped he wasn't the only one to feel something shift between them, a warm understanding, a flash of common memory. A shared nostalgia that undoubtedly hid resentment in it, but was still harmless, paradoxically positive in its silent acknowledgement. A breach.

“I brought you a copy of the play, and I've got mine here too, if you want to get a look at my notes and tell me what you think,”

“What, right now? I thought we were going for a drink,”

“Well, I thought that since we have the theatre to ourselves, we could take advantage of that.”

Withnail looked at him with utter stupor. “Yes, well... not for long, I'm afraid. We don't even have time to get started before Sam kicks us out.” at Marwood's perplexed silence, Withnail continued: “The janitor. You wouldn't want to wrong him. Irish, big man. You know the type.”

Marwood chuckled. “Yes, I'm somewhat familiar.”

“Talbot'll give me the keys if I ask him. He'll be eager, even, if I tell him it's to rehearse with you. I just need a word in advance.”

“I'll call you next time, then,” Marwood told him with ease, then he hesitated. “Come on, let's go to my place. I've got plenty of booze and we can go over the first act?” he added, tentatively.

Withnail took in his words with an excessively considering expression, then shrugged. “That's an enticing suggestion,” he concluded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I'm not opposed to it.”

“Great,” Marwood exhaled, patting Withnail's shoulder and feeling it stiffen for a second. He retracted his hand, carefully and held his friend's studying gaze, feeling the corners of his mouth tug with an unexpected, almost involuntary affection. "I liked rehearsing with you, my friend. I'd like to do it again." Marwood said, sealing his intentions.

 

 _I never wanted to stop_ , he thought, but it got caught in his throat as Withnail ducked his head to hide a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marwood is head over heels already but he has no damn clue I hate writing this daft bastard (I'm joking!)  
> I love office hours visits ;)
> 
> I'm on tumblr!


	23. Withnail

The same day that Marwood had asked Withnail for his help with his role they ended up in Marwood's apartment. They had started well, honestly, Marwood trying out the lines he had been unsure about; asking for Withnail's feedback, requesting his opinion on the stressed word, the accent, the delivery. They both wrote down their notes diligently, and Marwood didn’t need Withnail to feed him a single word.

Then Marwood uncorked the first bottle of red, and the professional approach was discarded as quickly as any effort not to make the whole matter hysterical. Withnail couldn’t exactly recall when, but he remembered a flash of lucidity amidst all the drinking in which he was _laughing_ , genuinely, and Marwood was wiping tears off his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, and Withnail was pretty sure it was because of his comments about one of his colleagues. He also remembered doing a spot-on imitation of their dreaded choreographer that sent Marwood in a fit of drunken giggles, and led into a competition over who could do the best impression of their academy years' mutual acquaintances, which saw Marwood as its indisputable winner with his final rendition of the Ukrainian ballet instructor. Neither him or Marwood had had the displeasure of having as their teacher, but she had been well-known amongst the students for having the fastidiously sadistic habit of finding satisfaction in busting the students taking cigarette (and occasionally something else) breaks in the bathroom stalls.

 

The problems, however, arose when Marwood shook him awake a scarce hour before his lessons. Withnail barely had time to register that he somehow ended up in Marwood's guest room before he started cursing half-heartedly his friend for letting him drink so much on a weekday and not waking him up in time to at least go home and get changed. He hadn't meant this to happen, but the damage was done already.

Marwood hadn't been in a rush and was padding barefoot around the kitchen in his nightclothes and a silk robe, gripping the edge of the counter tight and looking as if he was about to fall asleep, standing, as he waited for the kettle to boil. Withnail had no clue how he had even managed to wake up. He felt filthy but didn’t dare ask Marwood for a shirt, confident that it wouldn't have fit anyway. He downed his cup of tea within seconds and scalded his entire month, in a urgent bid to escape the situation that his brain couldn't stop defining as 'domestic'.

They had parted with Marwood stifling a yawn while wishing him a good day at the academy, which had made Withnail stop, frozen in some kind of stupid terror as soon as his friend closed the door behind him.

He hoped none of his students or colleagues noticed he had worn the same wrinkled clothes two days in a row.

Obtaining the keys from Talbot had been no issue, but Withnail couldn't help but finding the situation somewhat awkward. Just a few months ago he had been in the same office begging for a solution to Marwood and now he was back on his own words, hastily revealing the details of his and Marwood's arrangement involving the Academy's theatre and quite nostalgic rehearsal sessions.

If Talbot hadn't been so precisely informed of Withnail's turbulent past, it might have been a decidedly less dreadful half an hour of conversation, in which Withnail had wanted to bolt out of the door since the first two minutes, but fate had wanted that, involuntarily, his fucking _boss_ had to be one of the few fully aware of the situation.

Talbot had been positively enthusiastic about the idea of Marwood using the institute's facilities, even if Withnail had specified that everything was going to be held while the place was deserted and with no intrusions; so really, what was the fat bastard so fucking jolly about?

When Withnail incautiously voiced a question to which he wasn't really expecting an answer, because "Why the hell does Marwood want to be around me so fucking badly" wasn't anything that the principal could know, Talbot tried to paraphrase utter crap that could be essentially be summarised with a nonsensical approach to Marwood's monetary background. In Talbot's delusional opinion, that could explain why the man preferred Withnail's company to the the peers that were (hypothetically) in it for superficial reasons, such as Marwood's current fame and fortune. Withnail had felt his eyes roll back in his skull so vehemently at such a trivial explanation that he thought he had strained an ocular muscle. The principal, however, had remained fastidiously smug about the entire deal. Which had allowed Withnail to suppress even the last twinge of guilt about using the theatre as his and Marwood's favourite recreational spot.

Truthfully, Withnail didn't have it in him to be mad at himself for seconding each of Marwood's whims. He was aware he was a psychiatric case. He knew he was digging his own grave deeper each day and he loathed himself for it. Yet he was pulled to the other man as if he was a magnet; Withnail supposed it was only fair, at this point, to let Marwood have the sweet revenge that he never asked for. He would never admit to wanting such a thing, but Withnail prided himself as a connoisseur of his friend's evasive hypocrisy.

It was Withnail's turn to be debauched, he thought sarcastically. He was pretty sure he had been debauched from birth and Marwood was bringing out the worst of him simply because he was, however much it pained him to admit it, his ultimate and unreachable object of desire. For someone as inclined to addiction and self-loathing as Withnail, to have someone to elicit such a yearning without any possibility of satisfaction was the ultimate masochistic wet dream.

These sort of thoughts really didn’t help as he and Marwood settled in something that would have vaguely resembled a routine if Marwood's free time wasn't announced only days ahead. They met once, sometimes twice a week at the end of lessons. Marwood began showing up ten minutes after the last bell rang after Withnail scolded him for disrupting his classes, telling him that if he liked being around the students so much there was still time to change his career path.

Whenever Marwood was free, he insisted on meeting during weekends too, with such eagerness and so little warning that for two consecutive Sundays Withnail, still half asleep, opened his door to a smiling Marwood with a six pack in his hand and two copies of _Dollhouse_ in the other, barely an hour after he had received his phonecall.

 

February came along like a blow on the head. Fast, out of the blue and leaving Withnail heavily disoriented and vaguely achy. January had been such a surreal experience that it passed too rapidly, and the frequent hazy afternoons contributed towards a severe shift in Withnail's perception of time.

Marwood soon called off their rehearsing sessions for lack of time, which Withnail deemed fair. They had gone over all the acts at least four times and he had taken more notes on that damned play in less than a month that he had ever taken while studying at the academy; furthermore the première was barely three weeks away, and he had been perplexed at Marwood's persistence with their meetings. Had Withnail been him, he would have called them off way earlier, finding it odd leave so little time for the fully immersive ensemble rehearsals. But Marwood was the professional and Withnail was in no place to tell him how to do his job.

It was more than two weeks since he had last seen Marwood. Withnail would have accepted it with more diplomacy if Marwood hadn't kept calling him just to update him on how the play was going, something that Withnail had little interest in. He actually found his friend's apprehensive calls irritating, and as he sheltered from the angry itch with the bottle, Withnail thought that perhaps it was for the best if he simply avoided Marwood's calls, at least until the general rehearsals. Everything had been already set, and if anything unexpected came up, well, Withnail wasn't exactly dead to the world.

But all of Withnail's efforts were vain against his subconscious. Insomnia and turbulent dreams had been gnawing at him for months, but they were getting worse. Before January, it had been waking up, panting, with his long legs tangled in bedsheets that reeked of alcohol and sweat, most of the time not being able to actually recall a nightmare that Withnail knew all too well.

But that had been a bliss compared to jolting awake with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and remembering everything, the absurd realness of Marwood's lips on his, cold hands stroking his neck, running over his shoulders, embracing him, speaking words that weren't sweet and made no sense at all, yet had worked like a spell on him as he writhed and moaned in his slumber. The surprise and shame he felt the first few times were soon discarded. After dreaming about being pliant and sweet under Marwood's attentions for the fourth day in a row, the first thing he felt waking up was such a raw irritation that he threw the alarm across the room and scared Charles to death.

Withnail knew it wasn't a matter as simple as mere sexual frustration. Aside from the fact that his libido was as lively as his dear uncle Monty, may God rest his bastard soul, that wasn't what his dreams were about. They had been fastidiously devoid of any kind of scandalous image so it was impossible for him to dismiss them just as a carnal need (although the dreams still made good enough material, and Withnail wasn't above a wank). In Withnail's opinion, this was even worse.

The sleeping pills didn't help, as they actually made his dreams more vivid and blend through into the morning semi-consciousness.

Booze helped, but only occasionally, and not well enough. It helped more throughout the day, to prevent his thoughts from mercilessly drifting to his undeniable longing.

He saw now, with clarity, why he hadn't been able to make any promises to his brother. He had somehow foreseen this happening, as it had done dozens of times before. He quit taking his sleeping pills altogether to more definitely turn to alcohol, which gave him a sicker satisfaction and was more reliable in its effects. He dismissed all of Edmund's calls in a few minutes, certain that a prolonged interaction would have given him away. It was just for the time being, he had told himself. Just until the _Dollhouse_ première, and then he had all the time in the world to erase Marwood from his mind with more conventional methods. But with the promise of seeing him so soon, Withnail knew that modern medicine couldn't have been enough to keep him sane. It was a temporary solution to a permanent problem, but it was _his_ fucking solution. He knew what he was doing, and he could get out of it in no time, he was sure. He didn't need the help of people who had not even the faintest bloody idea of what it felt to be in his place, his damn brother included. Ironically, alcoholism was a more personalized and effective solution than a psychiatrist sizing him up, diagnosing him with depression and making him a living corpse. What about the bastard telling him something he didn't know, for a change?

As February was coming to its end, he prayed that switching his heart with a flask would be enough to bid Marwood farewell, once and for all, in a few days.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unexpected time skip! I saw really no point in dragging January and February for too long, just imagine that they met up a lot during that time and Withnail had to fill in for Nora's role in Dollhouse (if you don't know what I'm talking about, I heavily suggest you to read the last few lines of the last act of the play, but also if you want to read the whole play it personally took me half an hour, you can find it online!). A major plot point can be expected in chapter 27/28! Please hang on?


	24. Marwood

If Marwood could have afforded it, he would have spent the majority of February worrying sick about Withnail. His friend had ceased answering his calls rather abruptly, his silence preceded by the anomalous apathy and mild irritation that Marwood - familiar with the symptoms of its prolonged abuse in his friend - knew he could blame on alcohol.

The fucking bastard, he knew perfectly what kind of stress he was under with the upcoming show, and Marwood thought well to start drinking himself blind while cutting him off completely, as if they hadn't just spent roughly two months attached to the hip.

He'd made it quite clear that he wasn't being nice simply because they had to work together or because he needed help from Withnail, so he couldn't really understand what he had done to deserve such treatment. The première was approaching, and by consequence so were the general rehearsals, so Marwood decided to push back the thoughts of his friend that leaked into his mind at inopportune times, in an attempt to dull his perpetual lingering anxiousness.

Despite himself, when the few stray musings regarding Withnail managed to bleed through, he felt angry at the man, and hoped that he wouldn’t lash out at him in front of his students. But how dare he? Marwood had been patient and understanding beyond a sane man's limit, and if Withnail thought that Marwood's good heart excluded him from his more than justified anger, or that he wasn't expected to make a minimum effort in return, then he had another thing coming.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The fucking thing was so terribly itchy and hot that Marwood wanted to rip it off with his bare hands. He understood Powell's fervent attention to details, but _damn her_ for making him wear that heavy and awfully historically accurate wool coat under the stage lights. The theatre wasn't late 1800 Norway, for God's sake, and Marwood was positively broiling. Why did she make him wear the coat for the general rehearsals, when they had agreed that it would have been unbearable to keep on during the staging and it only served its purpose during the promotional photoshoot? Most importantly, why didn't his co-stars seem as affected from wearing layers of clothing and make-up as he was? He felt like a melting wax statue, he was certain he was going to need his foundation applied again before Withnail's students arrived.

Marwood was flipping nervously through his script as a swarm of stage technicians were testing that everything was working properly. James and Colin, respectively playing Krogstad and Dr. Rank, quite the best of friends, were engrossed in a conversation about a rugby match, while Vanessa, the actress playing Nora, was talking her husband's ear off in front of her kids - cast in the play to interpret Nora's children along with another boy of less prestigious birth who was eyeing the family with mild fear, as if Vanessa, in playing his mother in _Dollhouse_ , had effectively become his legitimate mother too. Simon, that was the boy's name, kept mostly to himself and always carried at least five comic books at every rehearsal. On stage, he was rather brilliant, if unpolished, and Powell certainly had seen his potential, while Marwood found him endearing.

The rest of the cast was mostly backstage, getting the last of their make-up done and their costumes fixed.

Marwood noticed he had been bouncing his leg nervously for quite a while only when a young assistant with a clipboard in his hand approached him warily in his field of view; he welcomed the distraction immediately by turning to him.

The boy shifted his weight under Marwood's gaze.

"Uh, sir..." He started.

"What is it?"

"There's... A man, at the entry. He's insisting that I let him through,” he continued, on edge.

Odd, Marwood thought. Aside from Withnail's class from the academy, which wasn't due to be there for another hour, (and Withnail wasn't one to be on time, not to mention early) he wasn't expecting any visits.

"Are you quite certain he doesn't have a pass from the Royal Academy? I'm sure you're aware that we're expecting a class."

"Yes, I'm aware, sir. And he does have a pass, but..."

"Oh, spit it out already, boy!"

"Well, I believe he's rather.... Intoxicated, sir. I apologise, but he mentioned your name."

With that, everything was clear. Marwood had no further doubt on the man's identity, and sighed in defeated exasperation, attempting to calm himself down and not lash out at the poor assistant for Withnail's sins.

"Let me guess, tall, black hair, looks like he's been punched?"

The boy nodded.

"Alright, let him through. I'll be waiting in the hallway." He finished with another sigh.

 

He followed the assistant out the door, but ventured no further as the boy paced rapidly towards the ticket office, wanting to confront Withnail in the empty hallway rather than in front of indiscreet ears.

Marwood was furious. It was as if Withnail was doing this on purpose. He was probably going to have to restrain himself from strangling him.

He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, his face, then ran a hand through his hair, put the glasses back on and settled for crossing his arms in a position that would be unmistakably interpreted as irritated by his friend.

When the doors opened, Withnail glared at the poor assistant who backed away as soon as possible.

"You're early," Marwood greeted drily, straightening as his friend approached.

Withnail hadn't even bothered to throw away his cigarette and eyed the halls as if he hadn't been inside a theatre before. He was swaying slightly, and Marwood believed that only his inhuman tolerance was preventing him from turning into a limp rag doll.

"I cancelled class for the evening, as scheduled," Withnail replied with a shrug when he was in front of Marwood, "or did you expect me to walk my class until here? This isn’t a fucking field trip, you know. My students are all adults."

"And I see you've used your spare time... _productively_ ,” replied Marwood with a sarcastic bite that betrayed no amusement.

"Why, yes, Marwood. Your acumen never ceases to amaze me. So tell me, what gave me away?" Withnail half-slurred.

"I can smell the booze on you a mile away, you fucking bastard!"

"I’m not even nearly that drunk, calm down. I merely had a few glasses of wine,” said Withnail.

"You must think I'm a complete fool if you don't think I noticed you've got a flask on you."

"And is that a crime?" Withnail said with an unnerving grin. Marwood looked at him sternly.

“My colleagues are here. Your class will be here. Christ, Withnail, the fucking theatre director will be here!" he paused, drawing in a shaky breath he hoped he had managed to control, "this my bloody workplace we're talking about! And you won't even have the decency to show up sober!" he hissed, sure that if he hadn't restrained himself he would have yelled.

Withnail narrowed his eyes. "Consider yourself lucky that all I have to do is sit back and watch, then,” he said with such an ice in his words that Marwood felt the temperature drop.

"Right, how preposterous of me to think you could act like normal human being for once and perhaps consider that I’m on the line, here. Because you clearly don't seem to care that you are, in fact, representing the Academy as whole, in this moment," and as soon as he finished pronouncing that, he knew he had gotten a bit too far.

"Don't you dare, Marwood. You are in no position to tell me how I should feel or not feel about my job," Withnail hissed back, his voice catching in his throat just mildly. "Fuck you." He added, for good measure.

"One evening, Withnail. That's all I asked of you. Surely you could manage one evening?" Marwood said at last, defeated.

"I've given you plenty of those, Marwood," Withnail retorted, always coldly.

"Yeah, and none of them were sober," Marwood replied, sourly.

Withnail made a vague gesture and smiled bitterly, which Marwood interpreted as an attempt to say that he shouldn't have expected anything less (or more) from him. And Marwood had been an idiot to do the exact opposite, stupidly hoping that Withnail would be in a state to be introduced to Marwood's colleagues. They were all vaguely aware of his existence already, but now Marwood fervently wished that they weren't.

But there they were, a drunk and a fool standing in an empty hallway with a great deal of fresh resentment blooming between them.

"You really should have expected this," Withnail muttered, awkward, after a few seconds of silence.

For some reason, those words made Marwood inexplicably sad. He knew that his anger wasn't misplaced, but to witness his friend adopt such a fatalist attitude towards his alcohol problem was still something that it pained Marwood to hear. Withnail couldn't possibly think that he had no other choice, or that Marwood would turn a blind eye to it, especially if it presented in occasions such as these. Marwood didn't even give a damn about appearances at that point, he was worried, for Christ's sake! Withnail hadn't given Marwood time to assimilate that he still was part of his life after all those years before showing the worst of himself.

"Yeah, serves me right," Marwood replied dejectedly, "you come with me, now. I'm going to get you sobered up. I'll get some coffee and I'm sure there's something to eat in here somewhere. And you don't get to argue about this.”

"I wouldn't think of it."

"Good. Come," Marwood gestured with his head.

He lead Withnail through the service corridors to the changing room that he shared with his male co-stars, that was luckily empty. Marwood sat Withnail down on his chair, glad the he did as he was told obediently and started looking around. He started the kettle and retrieved what looked like a clean mug, although it was quite impossible to tell in the mess that was a changing room shared by three men the day before a première.

Withnail, in the meantime, had lit up two cigarettes in his mouth and handed him one. Marwood looked at it considering, then accepted it, reflecting that it might help him with his nerves.

After checking in his drawer, in which he only found a bottle of aspirins (still quite useful), Colin's stuff produced a packet of sad-looking crackers, which Withnail eyed warily as Marwood tossed them in his general direction. Withnail raised his eyebrows at the offending item, then looked at Marwood with the same expression.

"You are in no position to be picky," warned Marwood.

"I didn’t utter a word!"

"You didn't have to."

When the water was boiling, he poured a cup for Withnail and added a generous spoonful of instant coffee, while he settled for tea.

After stirring it for at least two minutes, Withnail dared to take a sip.

"Ugh! Are you trying to poison me? Hand me the sugar, will you," he wrinkled his nose, “damn you and your lethal concoctions. I thought they treated you well here. Aren't you valuable to them, or something?"

"It's just coffee, Withnail,” Marwood replied, unwillingly amused, as he grabbed a handful of sugar packets from the table.

 

Withnail drank his coffee and ate the crackers in silence, probably mentally licking his self-inflicted wounds. His class was arriving in roughly half an hour, and Marwood hoped his efforts would be enough to make him look at least presentable enough for the initial pleasantries, then Withnail had two hours to sober up.

The changing room's door creaked open to James and Colin laughing at some unheard joke before the two men stopped abruptly at the sight of the other occupants.

"Peter, mate, why were we excluded from your afternoon tea party?" asked James with a grin, mimicked by his friend. Marwood huffed an apologetic laugh, and shrugged.

"I'm sorry, boys. Help yourselves,” he gestured around, ironically.

"Withnail, these are James Adler and Colin McGarry," he said, as Withnail rose from his chair. James shook Withnail’s hand first, firmly.

"No introductions necessary here. Vivian Withnail, right?" He inquired.

"Correct," Withnail confirmed, frowning slightly.

"We finally get to meet the man who's been monopolizing our star for the past three months," chimed in Colin when it was his turn to shake hands. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

"Were you two looking for me? Am I needed in the theatre?" asked Marwood, wondering what had brought the two men to the changing rooms when they were as ready as they could be to hop onstage.

"Oh, no, not yet, I believe. To be fair, we're just trying to avoid Thorpe. He's worse than usual," replied Colin.

Marwood made a pained face. He couldn't argue whether he belonged or not in the theatre, but that couldn't stop him from finding Thorpe’s presence irritating.

"What a wanker. I'm sorry, Withnail, he'll probably keep your class for a quarter of an hour to tell them how honoured he is to have the academy here. Just smile and nod along."

Withnail's face wrinkled, pensive.

"I haven't had the pleasure to meet the man yet. From what I gathered so far, I'm not looking forward to it."

"I'm sure Peter had a lot to say about him,” said James, with an idiotically smug expression on his face.

Marwood considered both of them his friends, but he didn't feel exactly comfortable discussing his ex-wife in front of a drunk Withnail, for some reason that he couldn't quite specify. Withnail hadn't seemed to be following gossip, and probably had no interest in Marwood’s failed marriage, as it should be. He had been grateful for his lack of interest so far.

"As a matter of fact, he hasn't. Have you been holding out on me? I'm offended, I thought we were friends, Marwood."

Marwood glared at his co-stars, who, unlike Withnail, found his most disastrous and public vicissitudes a matter for friendly teasing and amusement. Since they were updated on the whole deal, Marwood had dared to crack a few jokes, occasionally, mostly for their enjoyment rather than his.

"Withnail isn't interested in my dating history, maybe you should take his example," Marwood grumbled, at which James and Colin just laughed mischievously. Withnail was looking back and forth between Marwood and the two men, curiously.

"Oh, but this seems obviously worth it. Would you care to enlighten me?" said Withnail, with a tone that dripped false innocence from each word. His mouth curved in a shit-eating grin that made Marwood's blood boil. The last thing he needed was for Withnail to team up with James and Colin to get on his nerves.

"What is this, an ambush?" he laughed, vaguely nervous, "I hate you both. You've met him two minutes ago and you've already turned him against me. And you," he added, addressing Withnail, "are a back-stabbing bastard."

"That's hardly news to you," Withnail shrugged, "pray tell, Marwood, what has this Thorpe fellow ever done to you to deserve your scorn?"

Marwood sighed.

“He's marrying my ex-wife."

"Oh, come on, Peter! You left out the best part. It's not exactly a secret, you might as well tell him yourself."

"McGarry, you are a dead man. This is a promise."

"Hey, what do you mean? I'm on your side, I'm trying to get him on your side, too! How are you going to survive the party tomorrow without our support?" complained Colin, and despite himself, Marwood smiled.

"Fair, although I'm confused by your way of showing it, I appreciate the support," Marwood admitted. He laid his hand on Withnail's shoulder, and felt it jolting beneath him, but Withnail didn't acknowledge it.

“My friend Withnail here has been on my side for quite some time now, he doesn't need any more scandalous details to convince him."

"Speak for yourself, I want to hear this!" said Withnail, eliciting genuine laughter from both Colin and James.

"I'll tell you all about it when we have time, Withnail. Why don't we go wait for your class at the entry, they must be arriving at any minute now," Marwood suggested, hoping to relieve himself of an otherwise unpleasant turn of topics.

"Oh, how convenient! Listen, Withnail, if he doesn't tell you, just ask anyone in this bloody theatre, they'll know," intervened James.

"Will do, Adler. I thank you for the tip. I shall put this information to good use," said Withnail as he followed Marwood through the door.

"I'll be with you shortly, tell Powell that I just want to say hi to the students," Marwood told his co-stars.

"Good luck with Thorpe!" exclaimed Colin as Marwood and Withnail closed the door behind them.

 

Marwood finally let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He didn’t usually mind the teasing, but he was too much on edge to take it diplomatically for the time being.

"Alright, you've had your revenge in there. Now give me the flask," said Marwood, holding out a palm, determined.

"What are you, my mother? I'm not giving you anything," objected Withnail, scandalised.

"The flask or get out, Withnail. I don't trust you not to touch it for the rest of the rehearsals. You'll get it back when we're done, then you can do what damn well pleases you with it, I don't give a shit. But not while I'm working. Hell, you're working too!"

"You're such a _bore_ ,” whined Withnail, but obeyed, even if clearly wronged.

Marwood tucked the half-empty flask away. Then he narrowed his eyes.

“You don't have any more on you, do you?"

"Do I look like a liquor store to you? Do you want to strip-search me? I've nothing to declare, officer," Withnail joked flatly.

"Okay, I've chosen to believe you on this," Marwood paused “are you feeling at least a bit more lucid? You're not going to pass out during the play, are you?"

"Not after that disgusting thing you dared to call coffee, no. I can handle this, Marwood. I'm not completely drunk."

"Yeah, but your breath reeks as if you were."

 

Withnail followed him back to the glass door that separated the ticket office from the main hallway, and since no one was in sight yet, they sat down on the red velvet sofa in the waiting space. Withnail light another cigarette up, but Marwood immediately stole it from his mouth and started smoking it himself, laughing at Withnail's outraged sounds. He stole the cigarette back from Marwood after he took three drags.

"James and Colin seem like decent fellows," broke the silence Withnail.

Marwood looked at his shoes, thinking of an answer.

"Yes, they are. A bit nosy, though, but they're friends," he admitted, "James is RADA stuff, too. I might have mentioned you a couple of times, since I've turned down too many of their offers to go out for a drink because we had to practice at the academy, and they kept asking questions, so..." he shrugged, and Withnail made a considering sound.

"Marwood, look, you don't really have to tell me whatever the deal with Thorpe is, I was simply teasing you," Withnail said, looked tired and vaguely contrite.

"This consideration doesn't befit you, Withnail," teased Marwood, "It's just gossip, really. But before you find this out from someone else, well... Briefly: Audrey cheated on me with Thorpe," he halted, trying to find the right words, “but our marriage was over way before she told me about them. I try not to think about it, it was long ago. I'd hate Thorpe even if he wasn't marrying Audrey, you know."

"Oh. And you don't hate your ex-wife?"

"Sometimes. We share our faults, she and I. But, I'm not above resentment,” he explained, sincere.

"Right. Who is," agreed Withnail, but he was frowning slightly, and his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. He fell silent.

A memory flashed in Marwood's head, and he smiled.

“Do you remember that, uhm, John Millward?"

"Who, that cretin from the labour exchange that claimed he was the illegitimate son of a lord? His father was a actually a felon, right?"

"That's him. That's the one."

"Oh, yes, I remember him all right. Why are you bringing him up now? What about him?"

Marwood tilted his head, falsely neutral.

“Thorpe reminds me of him, vaguely," he concluded, suppressing a chuckle.

Withnail laughed at that.

“Oh, for Christ's sake! Come on! I'm about to meet the man, how am I supposed to keep a straight face after this, you bastard!?"

"Well, figure it out, because your class is here," Marwood said, pointing at the entry, rising to his feet. He lent Withnail a hand to rise from the shallow sofa, which he took without words.

 

They crossed the door to meet the students, who looked fairly surprised to see Marwood, and were eyeing his stage clothes with extreme curiosity. Withnail wisely kept to himself, while Marwood was answering as many questions as he could, without giving away too much of the play they were about to see, although they all seemed to know it pretty well.

An assistant checked their passes, and invited them to venture further to the halls, where Thorpe, flashing a blinding and terribly unnerving smile, greeted them. He looked surprised to see Marwood with the rest of the group. As the man talked, Marwood's eyes flickered to Withnail, almost involuntarily, to check on him, but Withnail's state wasn't alarming. When he caught Marwood staring, he rolled his eyes at Thorpe's words, and Marwood nearly choked on his spit to stifle a laugh.

Marwood's anger towards Withnail had always been reluctant to linger. Nevertheless, it was still there, burning faintly, Withnail's mere presence was enough to rekindle it. He had never asked his friend to be someone he wasn't, he knew Withnail liked his booze an unhealthy amount, and for unknown reasons the last month had turned out to be a hard time for him. Like Withnail said, he should have expected it, but he didn't want to. He had wanted to believe hat Withnail could have a shred of consideration. He should have been livid, but as he watched Withnail and his students nodding along to Thorpe's rambling as he lead the whole group to the theatre, inviting them to sit down, he felt something else, behind all the disappointment. Concern for the man, perhaps? Undoubtedly, but affection too. After all that went wrong between them, Marwood's judgement was still clouded by Withnail. Oh, how we wished he could show his forgiveness again. A pat on the shoulder and a few words of goodbye, pretending not to see tears, and this time, maybe, Withnail wouldn't hurt him again, and he wouldn't leave.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got much to say except that this chapter is way too long and I apologise. James and Colin are allies!


	25. Withnail

 

 

 

Withnail was well aware that this time he had taken a gamble with Marwood's good heart that was quite undeniably cruel.

One more day, Withnail had thought, so he could show Marwood exactly what he hadn't missed all these years, praying that they could back to their lives in a way that was less dramatic than a walk in the park beneath the rain.

Marwood had reacted in a very peculiar manner. Withnail had no doubt that Marwood had been furious at him, but it was the first time that he had seen him impose himself on Withnail like that. He had been almost too confused to argue about the confiscation of what little booze he had remaining. Fucker.

Anger at Marwood's actions, even if perfectly unjustifiable, was still prickling his skin, and he was having a hard time suppressing it, especially since he was getting more sober with each minute that passed. What right had Marwood to take such decisions for him?

Withnail could understand Marwood's current position, and to a certain extent even agree with him. Having an Academy teacher show up like he had, to an event such as that, was nothing less than humiliating, especially considering Marwood's involvement.

What he couldn't stand were Marwood's words regarding his apparently perpetual inebriated status. It was none of his fucking business what he did when Marwood was too busy playing Little Dysfunctional Family on stage. Marwood hadn't cared for years, he had considered Withnail's lifestyle to be positively eccentric. Only now that he appeared to have his act together Marwood dared to judge Withnail's actions, without even knowing a single thing of what happened the whole time he was gone.

 At least, he had the knowledge that Marwood had been cheated on to lighten his mood. Well, it wasn't as if he was glad that Marwood had a failed marriage, actually, he was trying to fathom how could anyone cheat on him, but he was clearly not in the place to understand. The sadistic satisfaction he felt was just just due to the fact that he was pissed at Marwood. Undoubtedly petty, but maturity had always escaped him.

 

Withnail had already caught glimpses of it, but as he sat a row behind his students and watched the play unfold, he had the confirmation that Marwood played a striking Torvald. Eerily affectionate, controlling, yet so sincere in his actions. Nora, too, was terribly compelling in her meek, escalating rebellion. She was, after all, the protagonist of the play. However, Marwood was the one on whom the curtains closed. It had been rather hard for Withnail to fill in for Nora's role, despite repeating in his head a thousand times that it was just acting, he couldn't help but fantasize some of those words being spoken outside fiction. Hearing them onstage, seeing Marwood's eyes almost shining with tears as he recited his last line, made Withnail feel out of breath, extremely uncomfortable but at the same time unable to take his eyes off the stage. Marwood had reached a kind of maturity in his interpretation that Withnail had ever expected to witness, and now that he did, he felt shaken, dumbfounded.

The bowing reserved for a paying audience was substituted by something quicker and a question time that was supposed to last a quarter of an hour, but ended up extending for at least thrice that time. Not a member of the acting ensemble was spared from the students' curiosity (except for the children, who had left as soon as Powell established that their performance was adequate for the following day). Withnail felt a bit proud at their fervent interest, but he was weary. He just wanted to get home, drink some more and sleep. He needed a fucking cigarette too.

When the cast and the director finally decided to call it a day, Withnail wanted to get out with the students and disappear without a word, but he also wanted his flask back.

He found his way back to the dressing rooms and knocked on the door of what he remembered to be Marwood's. Staff-only theatre areas all looked quite the same.

"Come in," answered a male voice. So it must have been the right door.

In the room, Marwood was sitting in front of his mirror, while Adler was tidying up and McGarry was lacing his shoes.

"Hi, Withnail,” welcomed Marwood, looking at him in the mirror, “here for an autograph?" he teased.

"Shut up, you prick," Withnail replied, with no bite. From the corner of the room, Adler snorted.

Withnail sat down on the chair next to Marwood, but with his back to the mirror. He lit up a cigarette and looked at Marwood. He had his costume on, but had shed everything aside from his pants and his white linen shirt, which he had unbuttoned to better dry himself off. A small mountain of rumpled wet wipes was sitting inside the waste bin. He rubbed off his make-up and gave a relieved sigh when he passed a wet wipe across the back of his neck, where his hair was already curling, damp with sweat.

Withnail was suddenly very focused on the hem of his jacket.

Marwood tossed the last of the wipes away with a huff and drained the water bottle on the counter in a matter of seconds.

"I'd kill for a fag," Marwood groaned and eyed Withnail expectantly. Withnail understood and complied, tossing him his packet even if not without clear annoyance printed on his features.

"Thanks," Marwood muttered around the cigarette, then inhaled.

"So. I'd love to hear your thoughts about the play, if it's not too much trouble."

"Well, I believe the reviews will be terrific,” dismissed Withnail. Marwood made a sound.

“I want your opinion, Withnail, not the one you think the critics will have,” he said, annoyed.

"Surely you don't need me to boost your ego, now, Marwood," he muttered bitterly.  Marwood grinned at that.

“I suppose that's your way of saying that you liked it?"

"Suppose whatever the fuck you want."

Marwood rested his cigarette on an ashtray nearby and approached a rack of clothed and began undressing. Something that Withnail had seen a thousand of times before.

"Gentlemen, for how much I enjoy listen to you two bicker like an old married couple, James and I are going to the pub. Should we expect you?" said McGarry. fully dressed and ready to face the cold evening.

"I'll meet you there when I'm done, you two go ahead," answered Marwood, then, looking at Withnail, expectantly, "are you coming?"

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'll pass. I've got a rather busy morning tomorrow," lied Withnail. He didn't find Marwood's co-stars unpleasant, but he was still in a sour mood and getting a drink with the majority of Marwood's colleagues present when he wasn't involved in the play at all seemed a bit like intruding.

The two men shrugged.

“Pity. I guess we'll see you around, then,” concluded McGarry.

"Certainly,” Withnail said, unconvinced.

"See you later!" Marwood yelled at Adler's back as he shrugged out of his pants and picked his casual clothing from the rack.

"For some reason I don't quite believe you have a busy morning tomorrow;" Marwood quipped when the door was closed.

"They're your friends and colleagues. I've got no business here. As a matter of fact, I came to you only because you've got something that belongs to me,"

Marwood glared at him, but opened a drawer and tossed him the flask. Withnail tucked it away, and rose from his chair, eager to get home and not wanting to keep Marwood from his own plans for the evening.

"You're positive that you don't have time? Not even for a pint? You know it's my treat," said Marwood, hopeful.

"You've got to make up your mind, Marwood, you either want me to drink or you don't," Withnail replied, audibly irritated. Marwood was being extremely hypocritical, and Withnail itched to get home.

Marwood sighed, exasperated.

"I suspect that you'll spend the rest of the evening at home drinking, so you might as well join us-" he paused "-also, we're both off the clock and I don't have to act as your sponsor anymore. So feel free to drink yourself to death.”

"I suggest you take something for your nerves. You seem terribly on edge, today," replied Withnail, falsely casual. Marwood eyed him angrily, and he felt a rush of childish satisfaction spreading within him.

"And whose fucking fault do you think that is, Withnail?" Marwood almost snarled. Withnail answered with a shrug that wouldn’t fool anyone into believing in his innocence.

"I'd say that this being the day before one of the most important shows of your career so far surely doesn't help, however I'm inclined to believe the answer would be 'mine'," said Withnail, looking at Marwood, still in his black undershirt, from behind a thin curtain of smoke, "also precisely the reason why I'm headed home."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm having the time of my fucking life here," Withnail gritted sarcastically through his teeth. Marwood was right, somehow. A sick part of him certainly was.

"Quit playing the victim. It doesn't look good on you-" Marwood was muffled by the sweater he was pulling over his head "-I have every damn right to be angry at you at the moment. But I offered you a drink instead."

"Yeah, you're Saint fucking Peter," Withnail said, venomous.

It had felt righteous when Marwood had been close to yelling at Withnail, it was the reaction he had expected and was looking for now. All this on edge cheek-turning was driving him mad. Marwood had been very understanding and patient with his behaviour the past few hours and Withnail was fully aware the he had done nothing to deserve it. He wanted Marwood's disappointed, his ire. He wanted Marwood to open his bloody eyes and see what kind of cunt he was being.

"Christ, Withnail!" Marwood grunted, frustrated. Then he breathed in loudly and shakily, and Withnail braced himself for an outburst.

"Go home,” Marwood exhaled, "Go home, because I can't fight with you, now. I don't have the time and I don't want to," he laughed nervously, without mirth. Not exactly the outburst Withnail had been hoping for. It was actually a sad sight, to hear Marwood so defeated.

"Why, Marwood, that's what I had planned to do from the beginning!" he replied, odiously cheerful.

Well, if Marwood was determined on not being baited into a fight, then Withnail allowed himself the luxury of walking out pretending to have gotten what he had wanted from the start. It was hardly a consolation prize.

Marwood finished lacing up his Oxfords and instead of reaching for his jacket he sank heavily on the chair, and rummaged through a drawer until he found his glasses. Withnail interpreted Marwood's attention shift it as his cue to leave. The man looked like he might have needed some time alone, anyway.

"Goodbye then, Marwood," he said drily.

"Bye,” Marwood replied, without looking at him.

Withnail glanced at the dressing rooms for a last time and headed for the door.

"Withnail!" Marwood yelled, as Withnail was about to open the door, "Wait."

Withnail turned, irritated. Marwood's eyes met his, and he felt uncomfortable and guilty for a second, but then he saw that Marwood looked equally nervous.

"You'll be here tomorrow, right?" Marwood asked, embarrassed.

Withnail blinked idiotically a few times and made a face that probably looked just as stupid to the man in front of him, but Marwood's expression didn't budge, it remained openly questioning.

"It would be a crime to waste that ticket," Withnail muttered, "bye."

He exited the room quickly, hoping not to see Marwood's face when he realised he had complimented him.

But he had no such luck, as he caught a glimpse of Marwood's beaming face staring right at him as Withnail closed the door behind his back.

He reached for his flask, and drained it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on, because the next chapter is the night of the première ;)


	26. Withnail

Withnail's morning after the general rehearsals did turn out rather busy after all. As soon as he woke up he walked with an unnatural calmness to the bathroom, looked at his ghastly face in the mirror and spent the following hour hugging the toilet. When his stomach decided that there wasn't anything poisonous in it anymore, Withnail felt as if he had flushed away his will to live, too.  
His breakfast was a cigarette and a glass of antacid.  
Marwood had been right, he had spent the rest of the previous evening drinking himself to death. Now he had a head-splitting migraine and far too much time on his hands to think about the première that night. He wanted to go, it would be a good way to remember Marwood and then go back to pretending he didn't exist. But he couldn't shake off a dreadful feeling that things wouldn't go the way he wanted them to.

He decided to try and find his good suit in the depths of his closet, thought it probably still wasn’t good enough to sit amongst London's richest and most fashionable. At least it was tailored, and black, if not exactly the latest fashion. It looked like it could use a clean, but the best he could do was to take it out and dust it off. He hung it on the closet door, knowing that on the bed it would quickly turn into one of Charles' napping spots.  
He spent the rest of the day trying to read a book, which then turned into watching a film because it needed less concentration, but it still wasn't enough to placate his restlessness.

_____

The theatre was, unsurprisingly, packed, even given the relatively early hour. The street was inaccessible for the entire width of the building as chromed, luxurious cars clogged the road, producing silk-clad aristocrats from their white leather backseats. A small group of paparazzi waited in a corner, all smoking and ready to dash to the stage door at the first creak of hinges. Just to get through the hall Withnail had to elbow his way through middle aged ladies in furs and Cartier jewellery accompanied by their equally posh husbands, often spotting some known face in the flourishing industry of tabloid journalism undoubtedly there for Marwood, who was the only one that the mainstream media deemed worthy of such coverage. The rest of the cast was predominantly theatre-oriented, their cinema and television roles limited to cameos or secondary characters. However the real star, Vanessa Romilly, owed her (rightfully earned) popularity strictly to theatre and her very young, French, and photogenic trophy husband whom the press raved about. To Withnail, for some reason, he always looked as if he had swallowed an aspirin without water and was trying not to choke.

His seat was in the second row, two chairs to his right from the central passage. To his left sat an elderly couple that clearly didn't get the note that theatre was supposed to be entertainment, who eyed him unsubtly and then ignored him. He felt overly self-conscious about his physical appearance all of a sudden, as if all these people could see through his old suit, crooked bowtie and greased hair and be able to tell his less than noble reasons to be there, and especially that he hadn't paid for that seat.  
In half an hour the theatre filled to the brim and his bowtie was becoming suffocating, being so near the stage and with so many people chattering animatedly around him. He itched for a drink, but he hadn't brought his flask with him. He would drink plenty as soon as he got home.

Around nine thirty pm, the spectators were all invited to sit and the chatter dulled significantly, becoming more quiet, but still excited. To his right now sat two gushing women in their thirties wearing designer clothes and elbow-length gloves. Withnail caught fragments of their whispered conversation: apparently the two were hardcore Marwood fans. He smiled to himself.

Glancing around, half because of boredom and half because of an unfounded anxiety, Withnail noticed an usher approaching his row and stopping next to the two women to his right. The usher counted the seats, and his gaze stopped on Withnail.  
He extended his gloved hand, holding a piece of paper.

"From Peter Marwood, sir," he said.

Withnail took the piece of paper with a confused frown.

“Thank you,” he replied. The usher bowed slightly and hurried towards the door.

The exchange was heard easily by the two women, who now were staring at Withnail and the white rectangle in his hand with unsubtle interest. Withnail paid them no mind as he opened the piece of paper. It said:

_Come backstage after the show?_   
_-P.M._

Not entirely sure of the meaning of Marwood's gesture, he put the piece of paper away in his inner pocket, still feeling observed.

The woman closer to him, in a champagne coloured satin dress and black gloves, her face framed by a voluminous hairdo of rich brown curls, leaned in coquettishly:

"Do you really know Peter Marwood? That Peter Marwood?" she asked, pulling her burgundy painted lips into a exaggerated smile.

She was a rather attractive woman. Had Withnail not been so inflexibly homosexual, it could have even worked. But he just frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, distancing himself from her invasion of his armrest.

"Personally, I don't know any other Peter Marwoods, miss. Especially not present here today," he replied, dryly.

She still beamed at his unemotional answer.

“What's he like? I mean, really?" chimed in the other, leaning forward to see Withnail.  
She had similar hairdo, but had deep red hair and a forest green dress, paired with white gloves.

"Short," Withnail said impulsively, without thinking. The two women blinked at him, expectantly, "Paranoid," he added, curt.

The two friends exchanged a perplexed look, probably discouraged by Withnail's reductive description of their idol. Fortunately, before they could ask him something else about Marwood, all the lights, except for the ones pointed to the stage, dimmed until the theatre was dark.

Of course, Henry Thorpe had to introduce the play, which was tedious, but not unusual. And if a theatre director deemed it appropriate to involve his fiancée to just stand by his side and look pretty, as the man in command it was just his decision. In this case however, it was not appropriate at all. Withnail couldn't almost believe his eyes, then his thoughts immediately drifted to Marwood, probably right behind the curtain that was background to Audrey and Thorpe. He was certain to hear a common whisper of incredulity rattling those who were aware of the kind of situation they were witnessing. The two groupies to his right surely knew. Somehow, he had the feeling that no one had been warned about this, especially not Marwood. For the sake of his friend's career, Withnail found himself praying that when Marwood found out, the play would already be over, although it was unlikely.

Withnail was a bastard all right, he nonchalantly admitted it to himself, but he couldn't believe that after all the years that had passed, Marwood's ex-wife still seemed determined on making Marwood's life such living hell. Audrey was on another level.  
It was clearly a publicity stunt, but it could have easily compromised Marwood's acting. All for a first page on a gossip magazine. Withnail was appalled. The cruelty that Audrey was demonstrating was only comparable to Thorpe's stupidity and unprofessionalism. To risk the performance of the banking actor of his show? Thorpe was playing with fire. And the two cunts weren't even married yet!  
And as if a pathetic introduction to a brilliant play wasn't enough, the two left the stage with a peck on the lips. The applause was enthusiastic as the lights dimmed again, but it served its purpose of masking the questions now spoken out loud between the rows.

All the stage lights finally lit up to the opening curtain and the silence was immediately religious again.  
Having seen the play the day before, and having filled in for basically all the characters, Withnail allowed himself to shift his focus to Marwood, to try to understand if he had been affected by Thorpe and Audrey's act.  
Marwood seemed not only perfectly calm, not even the slightest twitch of the mouth that Withnail was particularly versed in spotting, but for some reason his performance was even more convincing than the previous day's. Perhaps he wasn't aware yet. When Withnail was sure that Marwood was in perfect shape, he ceased being so attentive and enjoyed the play as whole. He wasn't worried about Marwood, it just wasn't as fun to see him upset if Withnail wasn't directly involved.

This time, however, he wasn't prepared for the last act. There was something... more, compared to what they had rehearsed together and what he saw yesterday. It wasn't just convincing, it was real. There was no Marwood, it was as if he had hollowed himself out to become one with the part. Yes, Nora was brilliant too, as always, but as the curtain closed on Marwood and Withnail felt his gaze on him, he was sure he had seen the best performance his friend had ever given. There was something so complete, so final about Nora and Torvald's goodbye.

When the applause erupted, it took Withnail at least five seconds to catch up with his surroundings and make sure that he hadn't hallucinated such a good performance.  
The curtain raised again as the whole cast flooded the stage: each member of the cast, in order of relevance, stepped forward to receive their applause. Marwood bowed to the public before Vanessa, and Withnail got a bit carried away with the enthusiasm of the whole theatre and he thought it was just fair to whistle, loudly. So close to the stage, Marwood actually turned his head sharply at the sound. When he noticed it was Withnail, he grinned even more widely, his sharp teeth shining. Unable to wave as he was holding Vanessa's and Adler's hands, he winked at him instead.  
Marwood didn't seem upset at all, he was beaming. Maybe he really hadn't noticed the introduction, or he wasn't bothered by it.

 

When the formal salutes were over the cast scattered on the stage, patting each other backs, talking in each other's ears to hear above the applause, picking up the flowers being thrown and the bouquets being shoved in waiting arms. McGarry and Adler clung each on one of Marwood's shoulders, making him sway and ruffling his hair, talking excitedly, inaudible.

Withnail's heart skipped a beat so hard he felt it in his throat. Marwood and him had had some... divergences, in the past few days. However it was impossible to remember them as the whole theatre cheered. Harsh words were reserved for the dressing room: precisely where he was headed. Marwood wanted to talk to Withnail, and he already suspected that it was going to be about his alcohol problem. A great topic for a parting argument, Withnail thought.  
Predicting a crowded backstage and not wanting to get stuck in a suffocating flow of people in the theatre, he left when the applause still wasn't completely over. He reached the hallways and walked to the backstage door, guarded by two huge, bald-headed men standing with their arms crossed in front of an already numerous and impatient group of people hoping to meet the actors first. He could still hear the noise coming from the theatre, muffled by soft, cream-coloured carpeting.  
It was hard to pass through the small crowd, especially because no one of those people seemed to have any intention of being surpassed.  
The bald man on the right eyed him from head to toe when he finally managed to stand in front of him, fixing a loose, greased strand of hair back in its place.

He reached for Marwood's message on his pocket, showing it cockily to the impassible energumen.

"I'm a friend of Peter Marwood's, this is his invite for the backstage. He's expecting me," he said, as the man took the paper from his hand and showed it to his colleague.

They only seemed to communicate via raising their eyebrows, but they let him through with no issue after studying the piece of paper attentively. He made his way easily through the chaotic corridors filled by stage technicians transporting scene objects, wires, flowers and costumes. The only closed doors were the main actors' dressing rooms, the rest was open and a blur of family members, spouses, children, walk-ins, assistants, ushers, artists, and technicians were hopping through them.

This time, he didn't bother knocking when he reached the right door, he simply opened it. He was expected anyway. What he didn't expect was to open the door to McGarry and Adler eyeing Marwood warily from their mirrors, saying nothing. They looked at Withnail as he entered, but from their silence he could tell that something was off. Marwood was rubbing make-up off his face with unusual fury. He didn't even notice Withnail coming in. He discarded the wet wipe slamming it onto the counter. The three other men flinched slightly.

"I'm going to fucking _kill him_ ," Marwood at last erupted, facing his reflection.

"Is this a bad moment?" Withnail asked, sarcastic, but vaguely amused, to catch Marwood's attention.

It worked, because Marwood turned his head immediately and the frown only lasted a fraction of second before Marwood's lips curved in the same wonderful grin he had worn onstage.

"Withnail!" he exclaimed, "good, you're here," he tugged off his costume's tie and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt.

Then he shrugged off his jacket and hung it carefully on the rack. McGarry and Adler's eyes were switching constantly between each other and the other two men in the room. Something was definitely wrong, and they all knew what it was. They were just waiting for Marwood to bring it up.

"Marwood, I-" Withnail started, hoping to change topics, but finding the right words was hard. “You were good. Really good," he said, with hesitation. Marwood looked at him, wide-eyed.

"'Really good', Withnail? Come on, you can do better than that! He's was fucking brilliant!" McGarry laughed, seconded by Adler as usual, but Marwood waved them off.

"Thank you," he smiled sheepishly at Withnail, "this is your doing too, you know," he continued, casually.

"A few readings certainly couldn't have influenced your performance that much, I assure you. I give credit where credit is due," Withnail dismissed him.

"So do I," said Marwood with ease, and went back to unbuttoning his shirt.

"Did you want to tell me something? Any particular reason why I'm needed here?" Asked Withnail after a few seconds of embarrassing silence. McGarry and Adler had gone back to fixing their shiny, pristine new suits when they noticed that Marwood's homicidal fury had been placated for the time being.

"Yeah, you're my plus one," Marwood told him lightly as he cuffed on a blinding white dress shirt, "Christ, I hate this thing, I feel as if I'm wearing cardboard," he muttered, tugging at it.

"Your plus one? Your plus one for what?"

"The première after-party," Marwood said, as if it was obvious.

It wasn't obvious at all. That was an exclusive party, with the main cast and directing crew, along with the press, critics and whoever was rich or famous enough to get an invitation. Withnail had cat fur on his out of fashion suit. He would never fit in.

"I don't know if I can come, Marwood," he started to protest, weakly. He didn't want to go, but he still had Marwood smiling at him from the stage printed in his memory, and he wasn't feeling at the top of his decisional faculties. "Why didn't you mention this yesterday?"

"You'd have refused, I know you," Marwood explained.

"You're not going to leave our star without his plus one, are you now, Withnail?" McGarry teased, friendly "that's just cruel. He gave you the performance of a lifetime out there."

"Colin, shut up," Marwood warned, without bite.

"Two words for you, professor:" exclaimed then Adler as he patted Withnail's shoulder on his way to the door, "Free. Bar."

"Tempting," conceded Withnail. Marwood snorted.

"My family's waiting outside. I'll see you at the hotel, lads," Adler yelled when he was already outside the door. He winked and pointed at Withnail, hoping to be persuasive.

McGarry was spit-shining his shoes and looked as if he was also about to leave for the same destination.

"Your plans, Colin?" asked Marwood then.

"A couple of friends came from Edinburgh to see the première, so I'm getting a pint with them before the party. I'll probably be a wee bit late, but I'll be there,” he said.

"And drunk," added Marwood. McGarry grinned mischievously.

"Fine, I'll come," said Withnail, in mock defeat. The other two men cheered.

McGarry left with his tie tucked in his breast pocket, making Marwood and Withnail promise to leave "some of the good stuff" for when he arrived at the party. Neither of them felt able to make such a promise.

When he closed the door behind him, Marwood's cheer slipped away from his features, and he sighed.

Withnail took out two cigarettes, and offered one to Marwood, who discarded his undone bowtie for the time being. They sat down on the chairs near Marwood's mirror.

"I want you there, Withnail. At the party, I mean," Marwood said as he exhaled a lungful of smoke.

"I said I'll come. But this really is my best suit, I'm afraid."

"You know, you really should invest in a lint roller," Marwood considered.

Withnail looked at his suit and grimaced. Marwood was right.

"You're not meeting any fans, are you?" Withnail asked. Marwood looked at him as if he had gone mad.

“No fucking way. I'm exhausted, and quite livid, to be fair. I've had enough public exposure for today," he growled the last part.

As if on cue, Withnail heard a fastidiously known voice approaching the dressing room.

"Speak of the devil," chewed out Withnail, studying Marwood expression shifting. Oh, Marwood was livid all right.

The door barged open to Henry Thorpe's bleached teeth, followed by an assistant hiding behind his back.

"Oh Peter, there you are! Everyone's looking for you, you know?" he greeted, as if Marwood could have been anywhere else but his dressing room, "you were simply marvellous. Why don't you go meet some of your fans? There's quite a crowd out there," he chuckled.

Marwood was wearing his deepest scowl, and Withnail couldn't believe he hadn't socked the man in the jaw yet. His irritating presence alone was enough to justify violence.

"How very thoughtful of you, Henry, to warn me," said Marwood venomously. Withnail knew that tone meant business. He sat back to enjoy the scene.

“Now would you kindly tell me what the fuck was that about? Because here I thought I was employed in a theatre, not in a circus for cheap tabloid journalism."

Thorpe clicked his tongue.

“That was just something to get some free publicity, you know it wasn't personal. It's good for business, come on!" he smiled.

"I'm sick of you and Audrey using this play and my performance to make yourselves look relevant to the public. You might direct this theatre, Thorpe, but this isn't your show," Marwood said, severely.

Thorpe looked at loss for a second, then scoffed noncommittally, but added nothing. Withnail saw the assistant backing away, slowly.

"For some reason you two think I still should be involved in whatever games you're playing with the press, don't you? For the last fucking time: leave me out of it. And if you involve the entire bloody crew in your pathetic little stunts to rile me up ever again, I'll bring this show somewhere else. I'm sure Powell will agree," Marwood warned, glacial, "now get the fuck out."

Thorpe gaped a few seconds before he was able to produce a thought. Withnail suspected it was the first time that Marwood confronted him like that.

“Very well," he said, feigning composure, "your loss, though,” he even managed to grin.

"Such a devastating one," muttered Withnail to himself, flatly. Thorpe seemed to notice him only then. His sole acknowledgement was a pissed off glare. In response, Withnail very classily flipped him the bird, raising his eyebrows. The two men watched Thorpe pace rapidly to the door and slam it behind him.

Marwood sighed, then he turned to Withnail, who was still trying to process the last five minutes.

"I'm sorry about that," Marwood apologised.

"You must be joking. I didn't think you had it in you, Marwood," Withnail laughed.

Marwood made a pained face.

“You know they'll be at the party, right?"

"Bollocks to them. It'll be easy to pretend they don't exist when there's a free bar."

"You're absolutely right. Shall we?" Marwood encouraged, as he reattempted to tie his bowtie.

"Certainly,” Withnail agreed, “you don't happen to have a lint roller, do you?"

Marwood immediately started looking through his drawers, and victoriously raised a lint roller after a quick look.

"My coat's in the cloakroom. I'll meet you in the parking lot?" Withnail suggested, removing cat fur. Once done, he tossed the lint roller on the counter.

"Sure."

"Did I miss any spots?" asked Withnail.

Marwood examined him quickly, seeing no issues.

"No, it looks fine."

Withnail headed for the door then, and Marwood grabbed his coat and scarf.

"Hold on a second, Wi'," stopped Marwood.

"What?" he asked, looking at his suit to see if Marwood had noticed any elusive hairs.

Marwood walked until he was a few feet in front of Withnail, and raised his hands to his shirt collar. Realising his friend was trying to straighten his bowtie, Withnail held still, with his head raised, looking at a blank spot on the wall, trying not to think too hard about such a meaningless gesture. It proved to be an almost impossible task, especially with Marwood looking so dashing in his designer suit, so close he that, if he had taken a step forward, he would have been pressed against him. Withnail mentally kicked himself, reminding himself that all of this was fleeting. Marwood belonged to another world now, and tonight was the definitive proof Withnail had needed.

Marwood rested his hand on Withnail's shoulder for a second that Withnail felt drag on.

"Great. Let's go,” he said, looking satisfied with the result.

Withnail watched Marwood disappear through the stage door as he headed for the cloakroom. A wave of dread hit him all of a sudden, making his jaw ache. The idea of the party paralysed him, as if there was something off. But he certainly couldn't back down now, could he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas is it gay to fix bowties?


	27. Marwood

Withnail had been right, it wasn't hard to ignore Thorpe and Audrey's presence at the party. Thinking about it, they were the last of Marwood's problems.

 It was bearable at first, when most of the guests were yet to arrive. Marwood and Withnail both immediately headed to the free bar and perched on two stools, chatting, for about half an hour, until Colleen arrived, surprisingly, with Laura at her side. Laura looked rather out of place in such a glamorous setting, wearing a suit that had been clearly bought for a more academic occasion, but with Colleen looking stunning at her side, she didn't seem to mind.

Colleen, who obviously was at the première with her, congratulated Marwood in her practical fashion, looking proud but ultimately grounded.

Marwood finally got to introduce Withnail to her, and she claimed to be delighted to finally meet a long-term friend of Marwood's, but he perceived something tense and unspoken in the way that Colleen kept eyeing Withnail. Perhaps she remembered that Withnail had been partly to blame for missing one or two appointments in his schedule. Damn her perfect memory. But aside from that, they seemed to get along fine.

During the night, he managed to find James, who brought his sister with him, and told that him that he had seen Colin around and that the madman had actually managed to sneak four of his friends to the party, only the devil knew how he had done that. When Marwood saw Colin personally, he was inevitably invited to their table and it was probably the only time in the whole night when he was allowed to sit with the same people for more than fifteen minutes.

 It was long past midnight and Marwood felt knackered. He had been tossed around all night as if he was a pinball, unable to carry on a conversation for more than ten minutes before a new arm intertwined with his own and dragged him to another group of people, all supposedly important and enthusiastic to meet him. Each time that he tried to find Withnail amongst the growing crowd, somebody else always found him first, distracting him with praise and anecdotes that he had trained himself to take in with a smile.

 

At some point, he decided he needed a drink, so he reached the bar and ordered a double scotch. He had hoped to see Withnail nearby, knowing his friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. Luckily, the area wasn't devoid of friendly faces: in a lounge area nearby, Colleen and Laura sat on a sofa. Laura was nodding along to another person sitting on a chair to her right, while Colleen seemed content with simply watching and sipping what looked like an extremely elaborate cocktail. He sighed in relief, and sank down next to Colleen, who looked at him pitifully, immediately able to read his mood.

 "Hi there, Peter. Have you been offered any leading roles lately?" she joked, sitting up and turning to him

 Laura was still engrossed in her conversation, and Marwood could only distinguish technical jargon between all the noise. Colleen would clearly welcome a chat that didn't require a degree in Quantum Physics.

 "God help me, I've lost count. I feel as if my brain's melting," Marwood sighed.

 "Come on, drink up. It'll help," she said, raising her glass to his.

 Marwood drained his scotch with a grimace, and put the glass down.

 "Have you seen Withnail around? I can't find him anywhere," he asked then.

 "I think so, but that was at least an hour and a half ago. Sorry," she shrugged.

 Marwood groaned. He just hoped Withnail hadn't gone home. After all, it was his fault, he had dragged him along to a party where he only knew Marwood, who had been forced to ditch him for the sake of appearances.

 "Speaking of him," said Colleen between two sips from her pink straw, "why didn't you tell me he was one of us?"

 "What do you mean?" he blurted out, perplexed.

 "Homosexual, Peter," Colleen sighed, condescending, "I knew it was impossible you only knew me and Laura," she reasoned, grinning.

 Marwood was at loss. "Withnail's not homosexual, Colleen," he assured her. Probably Withnail wasn't the most masculine fellow around, but still he couldn't tell where she had drawn that conclusion from. Marwood would have certainly noticed, “you're mistaken," he laughed.

 Colleen's eyebrows rose, sceptical. "Sweetheart?" she turned to Laura, who excused herself from her conversation for a second.

 "Yes?" she asked, leaning towards her partner and looking and looking between her and Marwood.

 "Remember Peter's friend from earlier?" -Laura nodded- "do you think he's homosexual?" she asked with the tone of someone who already knew the answer.

 "I'd say it's rather obvious," she stated, impassible, "isn't it?" dhe asked Colleen.

 "Yes, I thought so too," she considered.

 "I've seen him kissing women before. He's just eccentric, I assure you," Marwood told them.

 "But that was when you were at the Academy, right?" inquired Colleen.

 "Well, yes? You know that we lost contact for ten years."

 "And he's not married," Colleen stated.

 "Oh, bollocks! That's not a clue, if you knew him you'd understand why. Also, he did tell me he used to have a girlfriend," remembered Marwood.

 "And that was obviously a lie. So, he's not married and lives alone."

 "Well, he has a cat," Marwood precised.

 Colleen snorted in her drink. "You do realise you've just proven my point, right?"

 "How does the cat prove you point!?" he laughed, not without an edge of terror in his voice. Colleen's tone was light, but she wouldn't joke on such things. She really believed what she was telling him. But that couldn't be, could it?

 Colleen just shrugged, and took another sip from her glass. Marwood felt himself being swallowed by the sofa. He probably looked incredibly stupid, because Colleen was containing a grin. Laura was of the same mind as Colleen's, and they said it as if there was no argument against it.

 "Oh god. You're sure about this," Marwood said, swallowing around a lump in his throat.

 Colleen made a sympathetic face. "Well, I haven't asked him, so no, I can’t be sure-"

 "But you are," he interrupted.

 "Ninety percent?" She tried in a reassuring tone, with an apologetic smile. Marwood didn't felt reassured at all.

 "Oh god," Marwood muttered, slightly shocked.

 "Don't be so fucking dramatic, Peter," Colleen scolded him, "I didn't say he wanted to jump you."

 "What? No, I..." Marwood said, confused, "of course he doesn't." He frowned.

 The thought that Withnail could feel that way about him hadn't even crossed his mind yet, and if Colleen hadn't suggested it, it probably wouldn't have crossed it at all. Withnail being able to harbour romantic feelings for anyone was a foreign concept in general.

 "That's not why-" he paused, trying to find the right strand of thought "we've shared a flat for years, for Christ's sake." Colleen shot him an admonishing glare. "It's just... I mean, am I really that clueless?" He corrected himself before she could misunderstand the reasons for his turmoil.

 "Yes, you are," Colleen chuckled, "do I have to remind you that you only realised I was a lesbian when I introduced you to Laura? And I never hid anything from you," she added.

 "Fuck." He exhaled finally, defeated. "Please get me another one of these?" He whined, handing her his empty glass.

 Colleen clicked her tongue in fond exasperation. "I'll make it double." She said, using his thigh to lift herself and head to the bar.

 Maybe Colleen and Laura were right. He had to admit that he had to wait for Colleen to introduce Laura as her partner with a hand intertwined in hers to finally connect all the dots, and in hindsight, there had been many. If he had been so fucking blind about the two of them, then he probably had been blind about Withnail, too. With each second that passed, Withnail liking men reasoned with him more. It would explain why Withnail was so private about family matters, he knew that his career path alone couldn't explain it, especially because he had financial stability now, but was still adamant on having no contact with any of his relatives, or at least that's what Marwood had gathered. Then there was the entire deal with Monty. Despite the awful things Withnail had said about him, he remembered them getting along rather well; and Monty still included Withnail in his will, even after what he had done in Penrith.

Furthermore, Withnail avoided talking about the lapse of time in which they had no contact. Was this the reason? Was Withnail hiding a past lover?

Marwood felt out of his depth. He couldn't think of a worse moment to be made aware of such a thing.

 "Perhaps you could try and ask him," considered Colleen, coming back from the bar with two glasses.

 She had gotten him something orange with a fruity smell. Marwood took a tentative sip, which set his throat on fire. Exactly what he needed.

 "And you think Withnail would be honest about it? No fucking way," he replied bitterly.

 Colleen shrugged, but eventually decided she wasn't in a position to add anything. Marwood took another generous gulp of his cocktail.

 "Peter?" She called, with a slight apprehension in her voice.

 "What?"

 "In the case that I'm right-"

 "Don't be an utter knob about it?" Marwood predicted her words.

 "Exactly," she confirmed.

 Marwood sighed, but didn't feel like answering. He like a chasm of unspoken things had opened beneath him, but in the mess of emotions he was feeling at that moment, anger wasn't in them. This was nothing compared to all the shit Withnail had dared to pull on him of his own free will. This wasn't even about Marwood. If he ever managed to confirm his suspicions, he wasn't going to let them change what they had. They had survived worse, hadn't they?

 Where the hell was Withnail, anyway? He still needed to find him. Right, after his drink he was going to look for him. He fell silent for the time being, Colleen resumed paying attention to Laura, blessedly giving Marwood some time to pull himself together.

Looking around the room, he saw Colin approaching his table. His first thought was that he didn't want to deal with him in that moment, but there was something about the way he hurried people to let him though that was enough to set Marwood on edge.

 "Peter!" He exclaimed, as soon as he was within hearing distance. He looked upset. "Thank Christ I found you," he exhaled.

 Marwood observed him. He was flushed, and a bit out of breath. But that could be easily be blamed on the booze.

 "I think you should come with me," he blurted out.

 "What's wrong?" He asked, as calmly as possible.

 "Your friend, he... Oh, for fuck's sake, just come along!" He said, urgently.

 Marwood quickly discarded his drink, and all the thoughts flooding his mind, too. The good news? He had found Withnail, and he didn't even have to look for him. The bad news? He was going to murder him, because whatever this was (and he already had his suspicions), it seemed serious.

 Marwood quickly warned Colleen he was off, then he rose to his feet immediately, and followed Colin making his way rapidly through the crowd until he was out of the hotel's event hall, then through the carpeted corridor floors until Marwood couldn't see any hint that there was a party going on nearby, no more couples trying to find a private spot or tipsy troublemakers looking for expensive furniture to break. Colin ultimately stopped by a door that indicated the men's room.

 "He's in there." Colin muttered, nervously. As if it was his fault.

 Marwood sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands. "How drunk his he?" He asked, voice muffled by his hands.

 "Completely arseholed, I'd say." He answered, grim.

 "Right." Marwood exhaled, suppressing his anger.

 Colin looked at him, contrite. "I'm sorry, Peter."

 "What for? At least you found the bastard," he reassured him.

 Colin shrugged, contrite. "Are you going to need help?"

 "No, don't worry about it. You go back to the party, I'll deal with him."

 "Sure?"

 "Yeah, fuck knows how many times I've done this before." He said, sourly. "Thank you, Colin."

 Colin nodded and patted him on the shoulder with a sympathetic look. He turned around and Marwood watched him head back to the hall.

Marwood breathed in, hoping to gather some internal balance to deal with whatever Withnail's state was behind the door. Then he turned the handle.

The bathroom was as luxurious as the rest of the hotel. There were fresh flowers near the marble sink and fluffy towels resting on a stool. The five stalls were all empty, except for the third one, the door of which was ajar, allowing Marwood to see Withnail's frame reflecting on the pristine tiles.

 Withnail was hunched over the toilet, his face basically in it, resting his forehead on the arm that was keeping him upright. The other was holding an empty bottle of gin. He gave no clue that he had noticed Marwood's presence. His hair was messed up, the grease wasn't holding up well anymore and it looked like a sticky mess.

 "Withnail." Marwood called.

 He waited a few seconds. No response.

 "Withnail, get up, you bastard," he said again, louder.

 Again, no response. He gently kicked his leg.

 "Come _on_ , Withnail!" This time, Marwood genuinely growled.

Withnail shifted imperceptibly, and groaned softly, but still didn't move. Colin had been right, he was truly drunk beyond measure. He wasn't even able to tell Marwood to fuck off. Marwood felt rage building up within him, but repressed it. Withnail was in no state to be exposed to it. Oh, but he was going to be, sooner or later. Marwood would just have to make sure he didn't slip into an alcohol coma so that he could strangle him with his own bare hands as soon as he regained consciousness.

 Marwood saw no alternative but to take the empty bottle away and pull Withnail away from the toilet, holding him from beneath his arms and dragging him until he was near the sink. For being so skinny, the bastard could surely play a dead weight. Withnail protested with a few whines the change of position, but didn't fight it. Marwood positioned him laying on the ground, with his back against the wall. His head still hung heavy to the side, nearly making the rest of his torso fall too. His eyes were closed, his purplish-brown eyelids dark against the sickly paleness of his clammy complexion. Marwood was quite sure he was drooling, too. He reeked of booze, sweat and probably puke too, but at least his clothes had been spared. If Marwood hadn’t been almost blind with ire, it would have been a miserable sight. Marwood looked around, trying to think how to make his friend regain enough consciousness so he could get him standing up. He emptied a small vase containing flowers and filled it halfway with cold water from the tap. Then he threw it on Withnail's face.

Withnail groaned, this time louder, and sputtered weakly, opening his eyes for how long it was possible. Marwood looked at the scene standing up, with his arms crossed.

 "Welcome back to the world of the living, arsehole." He spat.

 "F'ck off," Withnail slurred.

Withnail didn't make another sound, neither did he try to move. Marwood sighed. He filled the vase halfway again, and crouched in front of his face.

He slapped Withnail's cheek gently. "Drink," Marwood told him, authoritative, holding the vase to his lips.

Thankfully, Withnail complied, even if he had a hard time keeping the water inside his slack mouth. Marwood winced as he inevitably got his suit wet, too.

When the vase was empty, Marwood discarded it and took a moment to think on his course of action, which he already suspected would be unpleasant. He didn't want to dump Withnail in a hotel room so he could go back to the party, because he certainly would have spent the rest of it worrying sick about him, and he was extremely tired, too. He didn’t wan to toss him in a cab either, especially not alone in his state. No sane cabbie would allow him in the vehicle. He wouldn't have been able to get out of the car. The only solution Marwood could think of? Calling it a night and bring the bastard to his place, so he could make sure that he didn’t suffocate in his sleep, even if Marwood was livid enough to wish such a fate on him. He exhaled, defeated.

"Do you think you can stand up on your own?" He asked him

"No." Withnail sobbed.

"Yeah, of course not." Marwood said, mostly to himself. "Wait here. I'll be back." He told Withnail then. As if he could go anywhere.

Withnail whined at that, perhaps in acknowledgement, and his arm shifted forward, but fell heavy immediately after. Marwood sat up and left the bathroom, walking rapidly through the halls. He just needed to tell Colleen the circumstances and that he was leaving with Withnail, certain that she would understand.

Aside from that, he needed his and Withnail's belongings back.

He marched the hallways, only then allowing his anger to get the best of him. God, Withnail was lucky that it had been Colin who found him and warned Marwood. He’d really done it this time. How dare he, the night of the fucking première! At the party where everyone's attention was inevitably on Marwood! He couldn't believe that the same night he had given what he believed to be the best performance of his life could also be one of the most socially disastrous evenings he ever had the displeasure of being directly involved in. Between Withnail giving his worst and the whole deal with Thorpe and Audrey, the weakest part of Marwood only wanted to get roaring drunk, let some tears out and pass out for at least twelve consecutive hours.

Before entering the event hall, Marwood had to stop. He felt the weight of the whole night crushing him, his heart beating fast and his breath coming short. He clutched at his chest, panting. He sustained himself with a hand on the wall, trying not to catch anyone's attention. He rode the panic for a solid minute, then, when his vision started to clear out, he trained himself to breathe steadily. The worst was over. He could do this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> narrator voice] the worst was far from over...
> 
> Alright lads big things happening in this chapter and even bigger things happening in the next one! Eventual trigger warnings will be added cos it's some pretty heavy shit. Also if your mate is soused please don't use this chapter as a guide on how to deal with them. Be gentle. Actually don't use my work as a guide to do anything. This is not how mature people deal with things. Not that I would know firsthand, mind you.
> 
> I'm on tumblr dot hell dot com ;)


	28. Marwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!! SPOILER ALERT BECAUSE I NEED TO PUT TRIGGER WARNINGS !!!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> suicide / suicide attempt tw in this and probably the next chapter too! Nothing too graphic though.

After finding Colleen still nodding attentively to Laura's ranting, Marwood explained to her the entire situation, still not entirely in the best mental state. She was completely understanding and looked deeply worried, although Marwood suspected he was the motive of her apprehension and not Withnail, whom she hardly knew. Colleen said goodbye, stroking his arm reassuringly, which Marwood had to admit he welcomed. He could have wept thinking about how he could count on her to be so rational yet so compassionate in situations such as these, but he had no time to dwell on that, Colleen already knew how he felt. He retrieved his and Withnail's coat and paid the first hotel staff member he crossed a generous tip to go ask the valet to get his Jaguar outside a secondary entry, just in case there still were some paparazzi outside. The last thing he needed was a picture of Withnail in that status being carried by Marwood on a second page after the first one had been occupied by Audrey and Thorpe.

Withnail was exactly where he had left him, but he had slumped to the side and his eyes were closed again. He crouched next to him, and shook him energetically by his shoulder.

"Let's go, Withnail," Marwood said.

Withnail cracked an eye open and pushed himself upright, but didn't do anything else. Marwood sighed audibly.

"Come on, you drunk bastard. Get up." He tried again.

This time, Marwood didn't wait for a response, instead he took Withnail's limp arm and hooked it over his shoulder, holding it by his wrist. He snaked his free arm around Withnail's back and gripped his waist firmly. He tried to push himself upright, hoping that Withnail would comply once he felt himself being pulled up.

Marwood stumbled a bit, seeing visions of his head cracked open on the stool in a forward fall and his brains spilling on the tiles, but ultimately Withnail's legs seemed to gain some strength and they reached a sort of stability, enough to try to move forward. Marwood wasn't certain that that he would reach the car before a disastrous accident.

Luckily, as he dragged Withnail along for the hotel's corridors, they were paid little attention. Aside from the night shift personnel, only vaguely inebriated people wandered their path. None of them had a one hundred and sixty pound dead weight upon their shoulders, though.

Thankfully, Marwood had spotted the secondary exit earlier and found it a second time with nearly no complications. Opening the door almost made them both fall, but he ultimately succeeded and probably scared the poor valet, who was waiting, straight as a pole, outside the car, to death. He blinked stupidly at the sight of the two, then regained his composure.

Marwood threw Withnail in the front seat and put his seatbelt on, figuring it wasn't worth risking being stopped by the cops while Marwood wasn't that sober himself. He then went to retrieve his keys, his shoulders and arms aching in relief. He gave the valet a tip, too, for good measure, briefly thanking him, and got into his car. He started the engine and drove away from the damned hotel.

It took Withnail a few minutes to realise they were moving, but when he did, he groaned and squirmed uselessly in his seat.

"Throw up in my car and I'll skin you alive, Withnail. I'm telling you," he warned, earning merely a deep breath in response.

Marwood spent the rest of the fortunately brief ride ready to pull over and stop at each of Withnail's slightest stirs and pained sounds.

He finally reached his driveway and parked right outside, as it was quicker. He killed the engine, and felt incredibly religious in realising his car had been left unscathed, especially because Marwood barely had time to drag Withnail out of the car that he was already throwing up on the pavement. Marwood groaned in disgust, distancing himself, as the other man drooled and spat on the ground.

When he looked as if he was quite done, Marwood approached him again, because Withnail still wasn't steady on his feet at all, and warily put his arm around his neck.

"Do you think you can keep it in you until we're inside?" Marwood asked in Withnail's ear.

Withnail whined, and Marwood felt free to cautiously interpret it as a yes.

“Where’re we?" He slurred then.

"My flat," Marwood replied, unable to tell whether he had been heard. "damn, you're really out of it, aren't you?"

Getting Withnail inside the lift almost gave Marwood a hernia. The hardest part, however, was getting his keys out of his pocket. When he was in front of his door and slowly retracted his hand from Withnail's waist to get his keys, the man immediately staggered and would have taken Marwood to the ground with him if he hadn't used the wall to hold them upright while he rummaged in his pocket.

As badly as he wanted to dump Withnail on the floor as soon as he got the door open, he figured it would be more satisfying to yell at Withnail the morning after when he was fighting only an unbearable headache, without adding the feeling of dismemberment he would get by sleeping on the floor. And, Marwood didn't feel like substituting any parquet tiles.

He threw Withnail on his guest bed with a grunt, exhaling deeply. Finally the bastard was off his poor back.

Withnail moaned pitifully and rolled onto his side. Marwood wanted to be mad, he really did, but he only felt an inexplicable heaviness in his chest at seeing him like that. Withnail was clearly in pain, this behaviour couldn't have been described as anything else but self-destructive. Paired up with what Colleen had told him earlier, Marwood's heart sank even further. Was that the ultimate reason for Withnail's recent actions? What was it, really? Shame? Guilt? Fear of rejection? From Marwood? Who had seen truly the worst of him, for years, and still stuck around? What a miserable fool Withnail was. All these years, and he still hid from Marwood, even if in the end all it ever brought was sorrow, for both of them.

Marwood would have probably been kept awake by his thoughts all night, but Withnail looked as if he could use a few hours of inevitably troubled shut eye. Seeing his friend breathing heavily his uncomfortable and filthy clothes, Marwood mentally scolded himself. Driven by a caring instinct he took off his friends dress shoes, dropping them onto the carpet with a muffled thunk, and manhandled Withnail so he could get his jacket off, which turned out to be an almost impossible task. Marwood was slightly drunk himself and was sweating so much between the weight lifting and wrestling Withnail out of his clothes. Marwood fucking wished Withnail would stay limp and motionless, but he kept tossing and turning, making the task of getting his arms out of his jacket sleeves nearly impossible.

"Would you at least try and stay fucking still!?" Marwood growled in frustration, as he finally managed to get the jacket off.

It was rather disgusting, and Marwood threw it on the ground. It would need a trip to the drycleaner's anyway. He took a moment to catch his breath and repress any uncomfortable thoughts of his conversation with Colleen, again, as he untucked the other half of Withnail's shirt out of his slacks. The bowtie and the first few buttons were already off and he quickly unbuttoned the rest and put Withnail's cufflinks on the nightstand. He pulled Withnail up by his arm so he could struggle him out of his first shirt sleeve. Getting the other off was easier, he just had to pull. Withnail back onto the bed, left in his undershirt.

 

That's when Marwood saw them, in the dimly lit room, almost invisible in the warm, soft tones. A matching set of scars: pale, shiny skin, running up both of Withnail’s arms from slightly above the wrist to the elbow crease.

It was Marwood's turn now for the nausea to hit him so violently that he gagged. He sat down on the bed, feeling his legs giving out, the room spinning. He dared to look at Withnail's arms again, hoping he was hallucinating, but the scars were still there. Almost in a trance, he reached out, gingerly, to touch Withnail's arm, not exactly trusting his eyes in that moment. But the raised, wrinkled scar tissue was undoubtedly real beneath his fingers, spelling out its origin: suicide attempt. Some day, in the past ten years, Withnail had tried to take his own life. If Colleen's words earlier had made Marwood feel as if he had been swallowed by the void, then this was what being sucked into a black hole must have felt like, Marwood mused. He was praying so fucking hard in that moment for the existence of another way to explain those scars, but he knew it was futile. It was such an obvious and rational answer to Withnail's attitude towards his past. But Marwood still prayed.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Christ, Withnail..." he muttered, looking at his friend's unconscious, frowning face.

It was then that Withnail's eyes opened wide, terrified, and he jolted upright, awake and miraculously sobered up, snatching his arm away from Marwood's faint touch. Withnail looked at him with an expression of such raw horror that Marwood involuntarily mimicked. It was enough to put an end to all his previous prayers: Withnail's look of utter fear confirmed Marwood's suspicions. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Withnail panting, looking on the verge of tears.

"Get out," Withnail whispered, no emotion but fear in his voice.

Marwood didn't register the words, and kept looking at him, paralysed. Withnail tore his gaze away, and looked around him. His eyes fell on his discarded shirt, which he reached for.

"Get out," he said again, this time rage was resounding in his words.

Marwood snapped out of his trance, and quickly looked away from his friend who was putting his stained shirt back on. He stood up, and headed for the door.

He stopped dead on his tracks before he crossed the threshold. Not this time, he thought. Marwood wasn't going to let Withnail hide away for the umpteenth just to drown everything in alcohol again. It was tearing them apart, again, and Marwood couldn't take it. Not anymore, not after tonight.

"No," he said faintly, with his back to Withnail. He turned, and looked at his friend, determined. "No."

"Get the fuck out!" Withnail gritted through his teeth, looking down.

"I'm not going anywhere." Marwood told him, with unnatural calmness. Withnail scoffed, and smiled bitterly, still not looking at him. "Why didn't you say anything?" He asked after an interminable pause.

"Because you don't fucking care about me, that's why! You fucked off to Manchester and I've never heard from you again, not a postcard, not a letter, anything! You got the career you wanted and completely forgot I even existed, then you show up after ten years, in the middle of an existential crisis, expecting me to open up to you as if you were my bloody psychiatrist? Some balls you've got on you, Marwood." Withnail erupted then, still not looking at Marwood, yet it was enough to make him want to back away.

Withnail's words landed heavy as a punch on Marwood, especially because they weren't true. He fought back anger at Withnail's accusation, steadying himself mentally.

"Excuse me if I didn't want to rot away in that dreadful fucking flat with you leeching off of me for the rest of my life! And how dare you say that I don't give a shit about you, Withnail. How dare you. Who do you think dragged your sorry drunk arse here? What do you think I did, as soon as I came back to London?" Marwood said, giving Withnail a moment as if he was asking an actual question, "I looked for you. For weeks. You're the one who disappeared without saying anything!"

"I didn't _disappear_ anywhere, Marwood," Withnail retorted sourly.

"Where were you, then!? Where were you, that you couldn't call, or write, or at least leave a fucking note, for Christ's sake!? This argument can go both ways, you know. Why didn't you try to contact me?"

"I'm sure you're perfectly aware that you're not exactly free to contact anyone you want when you're on suicide watch, locked away in a bloody mental hospital, because, as you might have noticed earlier, I slit my fucking arms open," Withnail seethed, this time finally looking at Marwood in the eyes, challenging.

"When, Withnail?" Marwood asked then.

"I fail to see how is that of any relevance to you," avoided Withnail.

"If I'm asking it means I find it relevant," Marwood argued, firm, "please stop hiding from me," he added, his voice slightly cracking.

Withnail tore his gaze away again, and breathed in.

“Two days," he exhaled, "two days after you left."

Marwood couldn't exactly tell why, precisely, but knowing when exactly Withnail had tried to kill himself made a shiver run through him and turned his knees weak. Perhaps because he could remember his second day in Manchester, laughing at the first rehearsal for the show and coming back to his apartment after an evening of drinking with his co-stars, euphoric and slightly intoxicated. All while Withnail was bleeding to death. The picture of Withnail's five day old corpse being found in a pool of rotting, foul blood by his father, who had gone to pick up his stuff, flashed through his mind, and this time Marwood had to steady himself with a hand on the wall. He dragged a hand over his face, as if to wipe the scene out of his mind. A thousand questions were forming in his head but couldn't articulate a single one. Each time that he tried to, the image of Withnail's lifeless form possessed his thoughts, overwhelming him.

"Does your family know?" Marwood inquired, suddenly remembering that he had contacted them. How could have they not been contacted when it happened?

"Do you think I voluntarily walked into that loony bin!?" Withnail said, anger swallowing his words.

So they knew, and they had lied to Marwood. It hadn't been hard, finding them in the phone book. Marwood remembered a male voice, and the dismissive tone in which the man on the other end of the line told him that he had no clue where Vivian was. Withnail's name sounded so foreign and detached in that man's voice.

"I called them. Your family, I mean," Marwood paused, nervous, looking at Withnail, who was staring at him bellicose like a wounded, scared dog, as Marwood took a step towards him. “I was told that they didn't know where you were, that they had no way to get through you," his tone was getting desperate.

"They knew. All of them." Withnail stated, deceptively emotionless. Marwood was once again at loss, rigid, unable to say a word of comfort. Withnail was back at staring at his own feet.

“Oh, God," he choked out. He drew in a ragged breath, and Marwood heard a sob.

It was a sight Marwood never thought he could have ever witnessed in his whole life. He had seen Withnail cry before, on command, or drunk, or a single, traitorous tear he couldn't help notice as he left for Manchester. But in that moment Withnail was properly sobbing. It was quiet and desperate, and it tore Marwood apart. His distant, caustic, mean friend was shaken by silent, furious tears. He was still drunk, but despite everything, he seemed proudly collected as his tears reflected the warm shine of the light on his cheeks. Miserable bastard, Marwood thought, as the sight of Withnail in that status made his heart sink deep into his belly.

As if in he was being pulled by an unexplainable force, Marwood approached the bed, gingerly. Withnail gave so sign of noticing him. He sat down, and looked at his crying face, half hidden by shadows. He cautiously put a hand on Withnail's shoulder, feeling the irregular breaths wracking his body. Marwood almost expected him to flinch away, but instead he turned his head to him, as if he only noticed him in that moment, and looked at Marwood in the eyes, pathetically, after what felt like a lifetime.

"You really called?" Withnail slurred, sniffling. His crying had dulled to a few years forming in his eyes and rolling, unrestrained, down his face.

Marwood's expression was probably unbelievably idiotic, wide-eyed, shocked, scared and devastated at the same time. He felt himself smiling softly, nonetheless, hoping to be of comfort even if he was on the verge of a panic attack himself.

"Do you think I could lie to you right now, Withnail?" Marwood simply told him, sincere.

In response, Withnail did another thing Marwood would never have expected: he threw his arms, clumsily and heavily, around Marwood, and buried his head in his shoulder, his sobs coming back at full force. Marwood couldn't help blinking and stiffening in surprise, his own arms raised uselessly halfway, unsure whether to return the gesture or wait for his friend to regain lucidity and realise he was doing something truly absurd, being who he was.

"I'm sorry," he heard Withnail say, muffled in Marwood's suit, another thing that would have needed to be sent to the drycleaner's. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Oh, but what was Marwood doing? Withnail was crying in his arms, for God's sake! He had just found out that he had almost lost him, forever, and that after everything, after being apart for so long, and he was wasting time worrying that Withnail might regret his behaviour in the morning? Fuck it, he thought, and closed his arms around his friend's back, soon realising that he was close to clinging, desperately, as if Withnail might slip away, or disappear as if he were a mirage if Marwood didn't hold onto him.

"It's alright," Marwood breathed out, probably more to himself than to Withnail, "It's alright, Wi'," he repeated. The man was still weeping, quietly.

“I'm sorry, too,” Withnail's arms slowly grew limp, falling at his side. Marwood withdrew his own, still keeping a hand on Withnail's biceps, hesitant.

"I'm a bloody fool," Withnail said, raising his head from Marwood's shoulder, wiping a sleeve across his face. Gross.

"Yeah, that makes the two of us." Marwood considered, thinking about why his past self had given up on looking for Withnail.

His mind provided memories of him studying his parts for television appearances one after another, being offered roles by theatres all over the country, and being invited to boring parties, including the one where he had met Audrey. It all seemed so terribly trivial in that moment. Had he been really that busy? No, he realised. The truth was that he had thought that Withnail resented him for pursuing the career of his dreams, had believed him petty enough to consequently disappear without a trace, and Marwood had let that resentment grow within him, as if it would have healed him. Yes, he was a bloody fool indeed.

With a tentative, relieved smile forming on his lips, he added: "You know, for once I'm glad that you're incapable of doing anything right,"

That earned him a laugh from Withnail, even if it sounded more like another sob.

“Fuck off" he replied, innocuous.

Marwood then completely detached from his friend, seeing that he was regaining composure. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, as if he had been awake for days. He was still keeping it together, but he had the feeling that if he let the entire weight of the day truly catch up on him, he would be shaking like a leaf.

"I believe I drank too much," Withnail stated, rather out of the blue.

Marwood chuckled.

“Yes, well, that would be the understatement of the year, my friend."

"I think... I think I should sleep," he mumbled tiredly, rubbing his face.

"That's sense. Hold on, I'll get you something clean to wear," Marwood said, rising to his feet. Withnail nodded, blinking to fight his bleary, swollen eyelids from closing.

Finding it hard to stop looking at Withnail, Marwood quickly exited the room and headed to his bedroom, looking through his apparently endless drawers for something that would fit the man's taller frame. All he could find was a faded t-shirt that he had no recollection of buying at a music festival years ago. He went to the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water and retrieve a bottle of aspirin, for him and Withnail both, certain that they would need them in a few hours to come.

When he was back in the guest room, he saw that Withnail had laid down on his side, his eyes closed, and his regular breathing suggesting that he was probably asleep already. The sight made Marwood smile. He put the glass on the nightstand, with the cufflinks. Feeling a bit sorry, he shook Withnail awake by his leg.

"Here, I got you a t-shirt. It's on the bed. Also there's water and aspirins." Marwood informed him. Withnail groaned in acknowledgement.

“If you feel sick again, the bathroom's down the hall."

In response, Withnail sighed.

"Goodnight, Withnail," Marwood said.

"Don't leave," Withnail slurred after a while, muffled by the pillow, as Marwood was almost out of the door.

Marwood felt something catch in his throat.

“I'm right here," he reassured him, in a rather shaky voice. He looked at his friend for a couple of seconds more, waiting for a response, but none came. He seemed truly, peacefully asleep now. He switched off the light, and closed the door behind him. All he wanted to do was go to his room and pass out, but his legs wouldn't move. It was after a minute or two of staring at absolutely nothing that he noticed that his eyes were slightly wet. It was enough to make him snap out of it, rapidly blinking and wiping his face dry in a single, furious stroke, as if someone could see him.

He was going to have a hard time falling asleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I'm sorry? I really am? I'd like to say that I didn't pull this out of my arse, the first draft of the script had Withnail shoot himself with the rifle he found at Crow's Crag, in actually rather iconic way by pouring Margaux in the rifle's barrels, drinking it and then pulling the trigger, as soon as he got back to the flat. I'd like to say that I wasn't nearly as cruel to him by changing a few things, but that's a matter of perspective. (Also if I see any of you bastards say that this is a cheap plot device you'll get my suicidal boot so far up your arse that if you open your mouth you'll see that my shoe size is 39, I take this seriously you know.)  
> Anyway this is kind of the turning point of this story, things will be different, especially for Marwood, from now on. I really would have loved to write Withnail opening up to him, but I'm trying to be realistic here. He'd never do that.  
> Comments are appreciated! I'd really like to know how many of you were expecting this, because I did hint it when Withnail goes at Edmund's place :)

**Author's Note:**

> After realizing I've been working on this for roughly a year, I did the math and this could go past 30 chapters. I was so young and foolish when I thought i could solve this in less than half of the predicted chapters. Updates aren't regular because God knows if I've ever had consistency in a single fucking thing I've ever done in my life. You can find me on Tumblr at the same url, I usually blog about pretentious movies and shitty punk bands so if that's your thing come say hi! But also if that's not your thing you can come say hi nevertheless, who am I to stop you.


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